GIFT  or 
Miss  Frances  M.  Molera 


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DEMOSTHENES 


BY  THE 
BEV.  W.  J.   BRODRIBB,  M.A., 

LATE  FELLOW  OP  ST.  JOHn's  COLLEQE, 
CAMBRIDGE. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER^ 

1888. 


I 


CONTENTS 


PAQE. 
INTEODTTCTION,       ------  1 

CHAPTEB         I.  GEBECB  IN  THE  FOUBTH  CENTUBT  B.C.,  3 

"  II,  MACEDON  AND  PHILIP,  -  -  11 

*•■  III.  EABLY  LIFE  OP  DEMOSTHENES,  -  -  19 

"  IV,   DEMOSTHENES  ENTEBS  POLITICAL  LIFE,  29 

'•  V.  EABLY  SPEECHES    OF  DEMOSTHENES  ON 

FOEEIGN  POLICY,  -  -  -  40 

"  TI.  PIBST  SPEECH  OP  DEMOSTHENES  AGAINST 

PHILIP— SPEECH  FOB  THE  FBEEDOM  OP 
THE  PEOPLE  OF  BHODES,       -  -  51 

«*         TH.  PHILIP    AND     OLYNTHTJS  — SPEECHES      OP 
DEMOSTHENES     ON    BEHALF     OP     THE 
OLYNTHIANS,      -  -  -  -  64 

"       Vin.  DEMOSTHENES  AND  MEIDIAS,  -  76 

"  IX.  PHILIP   MASTEB    OP    THEBMOPYL^    AND 

OF  PHOCIS  —PEACE  BETWEEN  HIM  AND 
ATHENS— COUNSEL  OF  DEMOSTHENES,  82 

"  X.  DEMOSTHENES  CONTINUES  HIS  SPEECHES 

AGAINST  PHILIP,  -  -  -91 

*'  XI.    CH^EONEIA— FALL  OF  GEEECE,  -  109 

"  XII.    CONTEST     BETWEEN    DEMOSTHENES    AND 

.ESCHINES,  -  .  -  -        121 

"       Xrn.   LAST  DAYS  OP  DEMOSTHENES,  -  132 

**        XIV.   DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAB,  -  -        138 

CONCLUSION,       -  -  -  -  167 


m!297219 


2  DEMOSTHENES, 

able  of  realization,  as  indeed  was  the  sincere  belief  of 
some  perfectly  honest  men  who  were  politically  op- 
posed to  Demosthenes.  The  highest  aspects  of  Greek 
life,  and  its  best  influences  on  the  civilization  of  the 
world,  were  intimately  connected  with  Greece  as  exist- 
ing accarding  to  his  conception  of  what  she  ought  to 
be.  His  eloquence  is  at  its  highest  when  he  dwells  on 
her  fixed  resolution  in  past  days  to  resist  to  the  death 
anything  like  foreign  dictation  or  interference.  Greece, 
in  his  view,  was  nothing  if  she  once  brought  herself  to 
endure  it. 

On  the  whole,  perhaps  the  Greek  was  rather  a  greater 
figure  than  the  Roman  orator.  He  was  at  least  more 
single-minded  and  courageous.  His  political  career 
was  more  dignified  and  consistent,  and  there  were  fewer 
weak  maments  in  his  life.  Cicero,  it  is  true,  was  a 
singularly  amiable  and  a  most  accomplished  man;  but 
he  was  unquestionably  vain  and  self-complacent.  De- 
mosthenes gives  us  the  idea  that  Athena  and  Greece 
were  always  foremost  in  his  thoughts.  As  an  orator, 
and  statesman,  he  may  claim  to  rank  above  Cicero.  As 
an  orator,  he  was  the  master  of  a  more  fervid  and  im- 
pressive eloquence;  as  a  statesman,  he  had  more  sim- 
plicity of  purpose  and  greater  moral  courage. 

The  period  of  Demosthenes  is  the  fourth  century  b.  c. 
A  brief  sketch  of  it  seems  almost  due  to  our  readers. 
The  speeches  of  Demosthenes  canncrt;  be  understood 
without  some  acquaintance  with  Greek  politics.  Mace- 
don,  too,  audits  rise  to  importance  under  king  Philip, 
deserves  at  least  a  short  notice.  The  history  of  the 
time  is  somewiiat  intricate,  and  could  not  be  thoroughly 
elucidated  in  a  very  moderate  compass.  An  endeavor 
has  been  made  in  the  two  following  chapters  to  pre- 
sent the  reader  with  a  view  of  its  general  ciiaracter. 


CHAPTEF  I. 

(5REECE  m  THE  FOURTH   "iENTURY  B.C. 

Athens  in  the  fifth  century  b.c  was  at  the  head  of 
the  Greek  world.  Her  empire,  liie  our  own,  was  a 
"government  of  dependencies,"  In  its  nature  it  was 
somewhat  precarious.  Although  it  was  not  specially 
oppressive,  it  was  in  many  quarters  an  object  of  ex- 
treme jealousy.  When  Athens  attempted  the  conquest 
of  Sicily,  it  was  felt  that  this  was  but  a  step  towards 
ulterior  and  more  dangerous  designs.  It  was  a  most 
hazardous  attempt,  under  existing  circumstances.  On 
the  sea,  indeed,  Athens  was  all-powerful ;  but  slie  had 
formidable  enemies  on  land  very  near  her — Thebes  to 
the  north,  Sparta  to  the  south.  After  her  great  reverse 
in  Sicily,  she  was  hardly  a  match  for  Sparta  at  the 
head  of  the  Peloponnese.  She  still  struggled  on,  and 
even  won  some  victories,  till  the  long  contest,  known  as 
the  Peloponnesian  War,  came  to  an  end  in  405  B.C. 
with  the  decisive  battle  of  ^gos-potami.  There,  in 
the  waters  of  the  Hellespont,  almost  her  entire  fleet 
was  captured  by  the  Spartan  admiral,  Lysander. 

Sparta  now  succeeded  to  the  headship  of  Greece. 
She  retained  it  down  to  the  year  371  B.C.  During  this 
period  she  contrived  to  make  herself  thoroughly  hated. 
Her  system  was  to  rule  by  means  of  oligarchial  factions 
in  the  different  states.     These  factions  she  supported 


4  I)EM0STHENE8. 

by  military  garrisons.  There  was  a  garrison  for  a 
time  in  the  Cadmea,  or  the  citadel  of  Thebes.  It  was 
forced  into  the  city,  and  subsequently  maintained  there 
with  a  flagrant  disregard  of  justice  and  equity.  The 
Spartan  king  Agesilaus  coolly  asserted  that  if  it  was  for 
Sparta's  interest  it  was  right.  Altogether,  the  Spartan 
rule  was  much  more  galling  than  the  Athenian  had 
been.  Sp:irta,  indeed,  always  seems  to  have  been  a 
more  selfish  state  than  Athens.  It  is  true  that  Athens 
in  her  greatness  had  been  spoken  of  as  "  a  despot  city;" 
but  there  was  at  the  same  time  a  feeling  that  she 
worthily  represented  Greece.  This  could  hardly  be 
said  of  Sparta.  She  was  now  cultivating  friendly  re- 
lations with  Persia,  and  had  procured  the  conclusion  of 
a  peace  with  that  power,  the  terms  of  which  were  by 
no  means  honorable  to  Greece.  Tliis  was  the  peace 
of  Antalcidas  in  387  B.C. — one  of  the  land-marks,  so  to 
say,  in  Greek  history.  It  had  ever  been  a  Greek  tra- 
dition that  the  freedom  and  independence  of  the  Greeks 
in  Asia  ought  to  be  upheld.  By  the  peace  of  Antal- 
cidas they  were  put  under  the  dominion  of  Persia. 
Athens  would  hardly  have  yielded  such  a  point,  and 
in  the  days  of  her  maritime  supremacy  she  could  and 
would  have  made  it  impossible.  Sparta  was  respon. 
sible  for  this  disgraceful  concession.  She  made  matters 
worse  by  seeking  to  convert  her  headship  of  Greece 
into  a  downright  despotism.  In  doing  this  she  wrought 
infinite  mischief,  and  may  be  almost  said  to  have  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  subsequent  calamities  of  Greece 
and  its  subjection  to  Macedou.  Shs  endeavored  per- 
sistently to  break  up  the  Greek  world  into  a  number 
of  petty  dependencies,  which  she  might  hold  under 
her  absolute  control.  Her  systematic  policy  was  to 
reduce  Greece  to  a  collection  of  separate   towns  and 


GREECE  IN  THE  FO  URTE  CENTURY  B.  C.    5 

even  villages,  each  of  which  should  be  completely  in 
her  own  power.  The  idea  which  lay  at  the  root  of 
Greek  strength  and  greatness  was,  that  Greece  should 
be  made  up  of  federations,  with  the  leading  cities  at 
the  head  of  them.  In  the  face  of  a  common  foe  these 
federations,  it  was  hoped  and  believed,  would  be  at- 
tracted to  each  other,  and  would  feel  that  they  had  a 
common  cause.  This  was  Panhellenism.  Sparta,  by 
her  methods  of  rule,  weakened  this  idea,  and  thereby 
undermined  the  foundations  of  the  Greek  w^orld.  The 
feebleness  and  disunion  of  Greece  in  the  fourth  century 
B.C.,  which  were  so  favorable  to  Macedon,  were,  in 
part  at  least,  due  to  Sparta's  influence.  In  one  in- 
stance she  inflicted  the  most  direct  and  positive  mischief 
upon  Greece.  At  the  bead  of  the  gulf  of  Torone,  in 
the  peninsula  of  Chalcidice,  was  the  prosperous  city  of 
Olynthus,  round  which  had  grown  up  a  confederacy 
of  Greek  towns  that  might  have  been  an  effectual 
barrier  against  Macedon,  or  any  other  northern  power. 
This  confederacy  Sparta,  true  to  her  policy,  broke  up 
in  379  B.C.,  and  thus  gave  a  heavy  blow  to  Greek  in- 
terests on  the  coasts  of  Macedon  and  Thrace.  But  for 
this,  the  jEgean  and  the  Propontis  might  never  have 
known  the  presence  of  Macedonian  cruisers,  and  Philip's 
kingdom  might  have  remained  a  poor  and  barbarous 
territory.  Olynthus,  indeed,  to  a  certain  extent  re- 
covered herself,  and  became  again  a  flourishing  and 
independent  city;  but  the  mischief  which  had  been 
already  done  was  past  remedy. 

With  the  great  battle  of  Leuctra  in  371  B.C.  Sparta's 
ascendancy  ceased.  Thebes  was  now  raised  by  the 
illustrious  Epamcinondas  into  the  first  place  in  Greece. 
North  of  the  Peloponnese  she  could  do  as  she  pleased. 
She  had  Thessaly  quite  under  her  control,  and  Macedon 


6  DEMOSTHENES. 

was  little  better  than  a  dependency.  Her  next  steps 
after  Leuctra,  was  to  strengthen  herself  in  the  Pelopon- 
nese,  and  to  complete  the  humiliation  of  Sparta.  This 
was  done  by  the  founding  of  the  two  cities  Megalopolis 
and  Messene,  under  the  direction  of  Epameinondas. 
Sparta,  as  we  have  seen,  aimed  at  breaking  up  and  dis- 
solving federations;  Thebes,  on  the  contraiy,  formed 
the  Arcadian  townships,  forty  in  number,  into  a  con- 
federacy, of  which  Megalopolis,  the  Great  City,  was 
mLide  the  centre.  Messene  was  then  founded  on  Mount 
Ithome,  and  became  the  rallying-place  of  a  population 
which  had  long  been  unwillingly  subject  to  Sparta. 
What  had  hitherto  been  Spartan  territory  was  actually 
annexed  to  it.  Sparta's  limits  were  thus  greatly  nar- 
rowed. On  the  north  and  on  the  west  she  was  con- 
fronted by  independent  communities,  and  her  position 
in  the  Peloponnese  was  well  nigh  destroyed.  Though 
Thebes  soon  fell  back  from  the  pre-eminence  to  which 
the  genius  of  Epameinondas  had  lifted  her,  Sparta  was 
never  able  to  regain  her  ancient  prestige. 

Athens,  from  some  cause  or  other,  had  much  more 
elasticity  and  power  of  recovery  than  Sparta.  There 
was  a  life  and  sprightliness  about  her  citizens  which 
made  them  quickly  forget  calamities  and  rise  to  new 
hopes  and  aspirations.  So  it  was  with  them  after 
Leuctra.  Athens  at  once  was  fired  with  the  ambition 
of  winning  back  her  old  empire;  and  she  actually  suc- 
ceeded in  again  becoming  the  head  of  a  powerful  con- 
federacy. The  disgust  which  Sparta  had  provoked 
throughout  the  Greek  world  was  no  doubt  a  great  help 
to  Athens.  Once  more  her  fleet  sailed  supreme  over 
the  jEgean.  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  chief  islands 
joined  her  alliance.  A  synod  of  deputies  from  her  allies 
and  dependents  obeyed  her  summons,  and  contribu- 


GREECE  nf  TUB  FO UBXa  VENTURT  B.  G.    7 

tions  were  voted  for  the  common  cause.  She  had  able 
men — such  as  Timotheus,  Iphicrates,  and  Chabrias — 
to  command  her  forces.  At  the  time  of  Philip's  acces- 
sion to  the  throne  of  Macedon  in  359  rc,  Athens  was 
the  first  state  in  Greece.  She  was  not  specially  well 
fitted  for  war  on  land,  and  was  in  this  respect  inferior 
to  Thebes,  which  could  send  out  an  army  in  the  highest 
efficiency.  But  by  sea  she  was,  beyond  comparison, 
the  first  power.  Rhodes,  Chios,  Cos,  and  the  important 
cities  of  Perinthus  and  Byzantium,  were  her  allies, 
Samos,  off  the  coast  of  Lydia,  and  Thasos,  Lemnos, 
Imbros  in  the  north  of  the  ^gean,  had  been  recently 
conquered  by  her;  she  was  in  possession  of  the  Thra. 
cian  Chersonese,  of  Pydna  and  Methone  on  the  coast 
of  Macedon,  and  of  Potidsea  and  other  towns  in  the 
peninsula  of  Chalcidice.  The  water::  of  the  ^gean 
were  thus  an  Athenian  lake.  But  sho  coukl  rot  hold 
together  this  confederation.  She  had  no  proper  control 
over  her  generals.  They  were  not  in  fac"^  the  servients 
of  the  state,  but  men  of  the  **  Condottieri "  type.  As  a 
rule,  they  commanded  mercenaries,  for  whom  they 
could  not  provide  pay  without  systematically  plunder- 
ing the  allies.  These  generals  really  maintained  their 
troop3  by  means  of  **  forced  benevolences."  It  could 
hardly  be  expected  that  all  this  would  be  patiently  en- 
dured. In  358  B.  c.  the  Social  War,  as  it  was  termed, 
broke  out — Rhodes  and  Byzantium,  it  would  seem, 
leading  the  revolt.  It  lasted  two  years.  The  efforts  of 
Athens  appear  to  b3  rather  fitful  and  wanting  in  vigor. 
When  a  rumor  came  that  Persia  was  about  to  support 
the  revolted  allies  with  a  fleet  of  three  hundred  ships, 
Athens  gave  up  the  struggle  and  acknowledged  their 
independence.  The  confederation,  of  which  for  a 
brief  space  she  had  been  the  heid,  was  thus  at  an  end. 


8  DEMOSTHKJSES, 

This  was  a  great  blow  to  Athens.  She  was  still 
powerful  by  sea,  but  she  was  very  much  impoverished, 
a  large  part  of  her  revenue  having  been  lost  to  her 
through  the  secession  of  several  of  her  richest  allies. 
Was  it  not  now  best  for  her  to  rest  from  her  ambition, 
and  to  think  no  more  of  "  a  spirited  foreign  policy?  " 
So  argued  one  of  her  citizens,  the  famous  orator 
Isocrates.  He  complains  that  his  countrymen  "were 
so  infatuated  that  while  they  themselves  wanted  the 
mean3  ol"  subsistence  they  were  undertaking  to  maintain 
merceni'.ries,  and  were  maltreating  their  allies  and 
1: vying  tribute  from  them,  in  order  thit  they  might 
provide  pay  for  the  common  enemies  of  mankind."  By 
these  he  means  'he  generals,  of  whom  also  Demos- 
thenes, his  political  opponent,  s  y  ,  in  one  of  his 
speeches,  that  "they  go  ranging  about  and  behaving 
everywhere  as  the  common  enemies  of  all  who  wish  to 
Jivc  i"  freedom  according  to  their  own  laws."  Athens, 
he  contends,  might  recover  from  the  losses  and  dis- 
asters of  the  Social  War,  if  she  would  only  eschew  for 
the  future  a  meddling  and  aggressive  policy,  be  pre- 
pared for  self-defence,  and  devote  herseli  to  commerce 
and  the  arts  of  peace.  In  this  way  shi-  would,  with 
the  great  natural  advantages  she  possessed,  very  soon 
again  become  rich  and  prosperous.  This  was  the  ad- 
vice of  Isocrates.  It  might  well  seem  sensible  and 
timely.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  suited  the  temper 
of  many  of  the  citizens.  There  was  a  disposition  to 
shrink  from  personal  efforts,  and,  if  war  became  a 
necessity,  to  leave  it  more  and  more  to  mercenaries. 
In  such  a  mood  there  were  dangers,  as  the  event 
proved,  to  the  cause  both  of  Athens  and  of  Greece. 

A  peace  party  was  the  natural  result.  It  was  in 
power  at  Athens  for  some  years  after  the  conclusion  of 


GREECE  IN  THE  FO URTH  CENTVR7  B.  C.     0 

the  Social  "War,  the  critical  period  during  which  Philip 
of  Macedon  was  step  by  step  advancing  to  the  position 
he  ultimately  attained.  It  had  the  advocacy  of  the 
speeches  and  pamphlets  of  Isocrates,  who  had  the  com- 
mand, not  undeservedly,  of  the  public  ear.  It  was 
thus  supported  by  the  ablest  journalism  of  the  day. 
Again,  it  had  an  eminently  respectable  man  as  one 
of  its  leaders.  This  was  Phocion,  whose  integrity  was 
proverbial.  Forty-five  times  was  he  chosen  general, 
and  he  gained  several  victories  for  Athens.  He  was 
alone  sufficient  to  give  strength  to  a  political  party. 
Another  of  its  leaders  was  Eubulus,  a  man  of  very 
inferior  type.  His  great  aim  was  to  put  the  people  In 
a  good  humor.  There  was  a  singular  arrangement  at 
Athens  by  which  the  State  defrayed  the  cost  of  the 
public  amusements  and  dramatic  exhibitions  for  the 
benefits  of  the  poor  citizens.  A  regular  fund  was  pro- 
vided for  this  purpose,  and  after  a  time  the  surplus  of 
the  annual  public  revenue  was  added  to  it.  It  had 
formerly  been  the  law  that  this  surplus  should  always 
during  war  be  paid  into  the  military  chest  for  the 
defence  of  the  State.  Eubulus  actually  induced  the 
people  to  pass  a  law  making  it  a  capital  offence  to  pro- 
pose that  this  fund  should  be  so  applied  on  any  future 
occasion.  Consequently,  the  only  method  of  meeting 
the  costs  of  war  was  the  exaction  of  a  property  tax 
from  the  rich.  War  under  these  circumstances  could 
not  but  involve  very  serious  and  sorely  felt  sacrifices. 
We  may  form  some  idea  of  the  pressure  of  the  burden 
by  supposing  the  case  of  an  income  tax  of  4s.  or  5s.  in 
the  pound  among  ourselves.  No  ministry,  it  is  clear, 
could  venture  to  declare  war  except  under  the  most  pal- 
pable necessity,  if  such  a  tax  were  inevitable.  Eubulus 
accordingly  conciliated  the  rich  by  doing  his  utmost  to 


10  DEMOSTHENES. 

save  them  from  the  dreaded  burden.  He  was,  as  we 
should  say,  prime  minister  of  Athens  for  sixteen  years. 
His  position  must  have  been  a  very  strong  one,  accept- 
able, as  we  have  just  seen,  to  rich  and  poor  alike. 
There  can  hardly  be  a  doubt  that  his  policy  impaired 
the  Athenian  character,  and  made  the  work  of  Demos- 
thenes peculiarly  difficult. 

Athens  thus  entered  on  a  great  contest  under  un- 
favorable conditions.  She  was  still,  from  her  exten- 
sive trade,  the  richest  city  m  Greece,  and  she  had  the 
means  of  sending  formidable  fleets.  But  her  citi- 
zens liked  ease  and  comfort,  and  preferred  their  cheer- 
ful city  life  to  foreign  service.  Her  dominions,  too, 
were  rather  vulnerable,  not  being  guarded  by  any 
regular  troops.  If  they  were  attacked,  they  had  to  be 
defended  by  mercenaries,  commanded  by  the  sort  of 
general  who  has  been  described.  Then,  too,  her  com- 
merce, with  which  her  prosperity  was  closely  bound 
up,  might  be  harrassed  by  an  enterprising  enemy,  and 
her  supplies  of  corn  from  the  Black  Sea  endangered. 
Thus,  in  fighting  Macedon  she  was  perhaps  at  some 
disadvantage,  though  we  may  be  inclined  to  think  that 
a  little  more  energy  and  vigor  would  have  carried  hsr 
successfully  through  the  struggle.  The  truth  is,  she 
was  not  for  a  long  time  alive  to  the  real  danger,  anc^ 
was  consequently  remiss  in  seizing  opportunities. 
There  was  a  party  which  urged  alliance  with  Thebes. 
But  Thebes  was  more  hateful  to  an  average  Athenian 
than  Sparta  had  ever  been.  Such  a  party  seemed 
untrue  to  the  old  traditions  of  Athens.  Hence  it  was 
comparatively  weak.  Had  the  danger  from  Macedon 
been  distinctly  foreseen,  the  alliance  would  perhaps 
have  been  effected.  Athens  and  Thebes  united  might, 
it  can  hardly  be  doubte  J ,  have  confined  Philip  to  his 
own  hereditary  kinirdom  and  have  saved  Greece. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MACEDON  AND  PHILIP. 

The  name  of  Macedon,  though  it  is  heard  of  from 
time  to  time  in  Greek  history,  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
become  really  famous  till  the  fourth  century  B.C.  and 
the  reign  of  Philip.  It  could  never  have  occurred  to  the 
mind  of  a  Greek  that  this  outlying  northern  kingdom 
might  possibly  one  day  be  formidable  to  Greece  and  its 
freedom.  There  were  no  signs  pointing  in  this  direction ; 
and  it  may  be  fairly  assumed  that  no  political  sagacity 
could  have  foreseen  such  a  result.  The  Macedonians 
were  always  looked  upon  by  the  Greeks  as  barbarians, 
although  their  royal  family — Temenids,  as  they  were 
called,  from  their  legendary  ancestors,  Temenus— came 
from  Argos.  and  the  people  themselves  perhaps  had 
some  distant  affinity  to  the  Hellenic  race.  For  a  long 
period  they  were  nothing  better  than  a  collection  of 
rude  tribes,  with  scarcely  any  cohesion  or  organization, 
and  before  the  disciplined  army  of  a  Greek  state  they 
would  have  been  utterly  powerless.  They  were  sur- 
rounded, too,  by  fierce  and  unquiet  neighbors — TUyr- 
ians  to  the  west,  Paeonians  to  the  norih,  Thracians  to 
the  east, — all  savage,  warlike  peoples,  whom  they  could 
only  just  hold  in  check.  The  country,  indeed  with  its 
rivers  and  rich  valleys  and  strips  of  seaboard,  had  nat- 
ural advantages  which  a  vigorus  prince  wilh  organiz- 


12  DEMOSTHENES. 

iug  capacity  might  develop;  and  this  was  partially  done 
by  Archelaus,  who  reigned  from  413  b.c.  to  399.  He 
was  a  man  of  great  energy,  and  he  may  he  said  to  have 
put  Macedon  in  the  way  to  become  a  flourishing  and 
powerful  kingdom.  According  to  Thucydides,*  he  had 
roads  constructed,  fortresses  erected,  and  established  a 
standing  army  on  a  greater  scale  than  any  of  his  pred- 
ecessors had  kept  up.  Probably  the  last  years  of  the 
Peloponnesian  war,  which  were  so  disastrous  to  Athens, 
were  favorable  to  Macedon,  and  enabled  it  to  acquire 
an  influence  on  the  northern  coasts  of  the  -^gean, 
which  previously  Athens  had  possessed.  Still,  no 
doubt  Archelaus  deserves  the  credit  of  having  steadily 
applied  himself  to  the  work  of  strc  igthening  and  coa- 
Bolidating  his  kingdom.  At  lae  same  time,  he  did  his 
best  to  civilize  his  people,  and  to  Luing  them  into  con- 
nection with  the  0  ck  world.  lie  cultivated  the 
friendship  of  Athens,  and  sought  to  introduce  its 
literature  and  art.  He  establish'^d  a  grand  periodical 
festival  on  the  Greek  type,  with  all  the  humanizing 
adjuncts  of  music  and  poetry.  The  great  poet  Euri- 
pides visited  his  court  at  his  special  invitation,  and 
was  treated  with  such  favor  a^id  respect  that  he  re- 
mained there  till  his  death.  The  philosopher  Socrates 
was  invited,  but  it  appears  that  he  declined  the  honor. 
The  famous  painter,  Zeuxis  of  Heraclcia,  was  one  of  the 
king's  guests,  and  he  was  employed  to  adorn  with  pic 
tures  the  royal  palace  at  Pella,  the  new  capitol  of 
Macedonia.  In  fact,  Archelaus  was  an  enlightened 
despot ;  and  though  he  could  not  eradicate  barbarism 
and  make  Macedonians  into  Greeks,  he  at  least  gave 
the  higher  class  a  varnish  of  Greek  civilization  and 
culture. 

*  Thucydides,  ii.  100. 


MACEDON  AND  PHILIP.  13 

It  was  not  unusual  for  the  kings  of  Macedon  to  perish 
by  the  hands  of  conspirators  and  assassins,  and  this  was 
the  fate  of  Archelaus.  The  dynasty  was  now  changed; 
and  after  a  few  years  of  disturbance,  Amyntas,  the 
father  of  Philip,  became  king  in  394  B.C.  His  reign 
was  not  a  prosperous  one.  Macedonia  went  back,  and 
its  very  existence  as  an  independent  kingdom  was  in 
jeopardy.  According  to  one  account,  Amyntas  was 
obliged  to  surrender  Philip  as  a  hostage  to  the  Illyr- 
ians,  who  were  then  particularly  troublesome.  He 
left  his  kingdom  at  his  death,  in  370  B.C.,  in  an  almost 
desperate  plight.  The  succession  to  the  throne  was 
disputed,  and  the  enemies  on  the  border  were  as  for- 
midable as  ever.  Macedon,  indeed,  seemed  on  the  eve 
of  being  wholly  extinguished.  The  eldest  son  and 
successor  of  Amyntas,  Alexander,  was  murdered;  and 
shortly  afterwards  the  Theban  Pelopidas  was  invited 
into  the  country  by  the  friends  of  the  royal  family, 
with  the  view  probably  of  securing  the  throne  for  the 
two  younger  brothers,  Perdiccas  and  Philip.  Pelopi- 
das, it  seems,  forced  on  Macedonia  the  adoption  of  this 
arrangement,  and  took  Philip  with  him  to  Thebes,  as 
a  hostage  for  its  being  faithfully  carried  out.  Philip 
passed  three  years  at  Thebes,  while  his  brother  Perdic- 
cas was  king.  He  then,  in  368  B.C.,  was  intrusted 
with  the  government  of  a  portion  of  Macedonia  under 
Perdiccas,  and  employed  his  time  in  equipping  and 
organizing  some  troops.  His  brother's  reign  had  a  dis- 
astrous termination.  He  was  defeated  with  heavy  loss 
by  the  Illyrians,  and  died  soon  afterwards.  And  so 
Philip,  now  twenty-three  years  of  age,  became  king  of 
Macedon  in  359  B.C.,  there  being  only  an  infant  son 
of  Perdiccas  whose  claim  to  the  throne  it  was  not  dif- 


14  DEMOSTHENES. 

ficult,  under  the  circumstances,  to  set  aside  with  the 
national  approval. 

No  prince  could  have  begun  his  reign  with  gloomier 
prospects  than  the  future  conqueror  of  Greece.  He 
was  encompassed  by  enemies.  There  were  other  claim- 
ants of  the  throne — one  of  these  being  Argseus,  who 
was  supported  by  Athens.  He  thus  had  to  fear  attack 
from  barbarian  neighbors  by  land,  and  from  Athenian 
fleets  by  sea.  The  hostile  attitude  of  the  Athenians 
was  determined  by  their  very  prudent  desire  to  recover 
the  important  position  of  Amphipolis  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Strymon.  To  Athens  the  possession  of  this  place 
was  of  the  utmost  value,  as  it  was  the  key  to  a  region 
rich  in  gold  and  silver  mines,  as  well  as  in  forest-timber. 
To  this  the  people  had  an  eye,  in  supporting  the  pre- 
tensions of  Argscus  to  the  throne  of  Macedon  against 
Philip.  The  king,  however,  met  them  promptly,  and 
won  a  victory  over  a  little  force  which  they  had  sent 
to  Methoue  on  the  Macedonian  coast  of  the  Gulf  of 
Thcrmai.  Ho  took  some  Athenian  citizens  prisoners; 
but  as  he  was  anxious  to  conciliate  Athens,  he  treated 
them  with  marked  respect,  and  allowed  them  at  once 
to  return.  He  then  made  peace  with  Athens,  and 
waived  all  claim  to  Amphipolis,  in  which  his  pred- 
ecessor had  placed  a  Macedonian  garrison.  The  city 
was  now  left  to  itself;  and  the  Athenians,  had  they 
been  wise,  would  have  spared  no  effort  to  secure  it. 
As  it  was,  they  let  slip  a  golden  opportunity  of  regain- 
ing a  position  which  might  have  been  in  their  hands  a 
barrier  against  the  growing  power  of  Macedon,  and 
would  have  certainly  enabled  them  to  maintain  their 
maritime  supremacy  on  the  ^gean. 

Philip  meanwhile,  having  freed  himself  for  the 
present  from  the  fear  of  Athens,  was  at  liberty  to  fence 


MAGEDOJS  AND  PHILIP.  15 

off  his  kingdom  from  the  attacks  of  its  land  enemies. 
He  had  already  organized  something  of  a  mililary  force, 
and  with  this  he  prepared  to  strike  a  decisive  blow  at 
the  Illyrian,  Pseonion,  and  Thracian  tribes,  which  were 
perpetually  crossing  the  Macedonian  frontier  in  plun- 
dering expeditions.  It  seems  that  these  tribes,  which 
were  scattered  over  what  are  now  the  provinces  of 
Bosnia,  Servia,  and  Albania,  were  at  this  time  being 
])ushed  southwards  by  a  g-eat  movement  of  the  Gauls. 
The  lUyrians  were  Maccdon's  most  dangerous  neigh- 
bors, and  they  had  inflicted  many  disastrous  defeats 
on  Philip's  predecessors.  Now  they  were  at  the  height 
of  their  power,  and  were  united  for  purposes  of  war 
under  a  chief  named  Bardylis,  an  able  leader  and  a 
brave  warrior.  Philip,  after  thoroughly  vanquishing 
the  Paeonians,  which  he  seems  to  have  done  easily, 
turned  his  arms  against  the  more  formidable  Illyrians, 
and  attacked  them  in  western  Macedonia,  which  they 
had  invaded.  lie  won  a  hard-fought  battle,  chiefly 
through  the  efficiency  of  his  cavalr}^  The  Illyrian 
army  was  utterly  discomfited,  and  their  chief  glad  to 
make  p  ace,  and  cede  whatever  portions  of  Mace- 
donia he  had  conquered  and  occupied.  The  result  of 
this  victory  was,  that  the  Maccnoaian  frontier  was 
pushed  to  the  lake  Lychnitis  (now  Okridha),  and  was 
made  far  moro  secure  than  it  had  hitherto  been,  by  the 
occupation  of  mountain-passes  through  which  the 
Illyrian  invaders  used  to  pour  into  Macedonia. 

The  famous  phalanx,  which  we  connect  specially 
with  the  names  of  Macedon  and  Philip  and  Alexander, 
is  said  to  have  taken  part  in  this  battle.  Philip  has 
been  credited  with  this  military  invention;  but,  in 
truth,  he  can  be  said  only  to  have  introduced  it.  He 
may  have  considerably  modified  it,  but  it  had  always 


16  DEMOSTHENES. 

been  an  important  element  in  u  Greek  army.  It  was 
the  great  Epameinondas  of  Thebes  who  seems  to  have 
first  organized  it  in  its  most  powerful  and  effective 
form.  He,  in  fact,  it  was  who  brought  the  science  of 
war  to  the  highest  perfection  hitherto  known  in  Greece. 
Philip,  during  his  residence  as  a  young  man  in  Thebes, 
may  well  have  had  opportunities  of  personal  intercourse 
with  this  illustrious  general,  and  derived  from  him 
many  profitable  hints  and  suggestions.  At  all  events,  he 
had  daily  under  his  eyes  the  magnificent  soldiers  who 
had  fought  and  conquered  at  Leuctra.  His  first  military 
ideas  were  thus  drawn  from  the  best  of  all  schools,  and 
we  may  well  suppose  that  a  deep  impression  was  at  the 
same  time  made  on  his  young  imagination.  He  would 
soon  see  that  the  barbarous  enemies  of  Macedon  would 
never  be  able  to  stand  against  really  well-trained  troops. 
He  had  also  at  Thebes  the  litei  ary  and  philosophical 
teaching  which  often  lays  the  foundation  of  able  states- 
manship. Possibly  he  may  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Plato,  and  there  is  certainly  ground  for  believing 
that  the  philosopher  conceived  a  high  opinion  of  his 
ability.  Nor  is  it  unlikely  that  he  may  also  at  this 
time  have  had  his  admiration  directed  by  some  circum- 
stance to  Aristotle,  whom  he  afterwards  made  the 
lutor  of  the  young  Alexander.  It  is  certain  that  he 
became  imbued  with  some  amount  of  Greek  culture, 
and  that  he  acquired  the  power  of  speaking  and  writing 
the  language  almost  as  well  as  a  professed  orator  or 
rhetorician.  He  liked  to  look  on  himself,  and  to  be 
regarded  by  others,  as  thoroughly  a  Greek ;  and  this  it 
was,  no  doubt,  which  inclined  him  to  be  always  con 
siderate  towards  Athens,  as  the  foremost  state  of  Greece. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  too  young,  before  he  left  Thebes, 
to  imbibe  some  political  notions.      In  such  a  city  he 


^lACKDON  AJS'D  PHILIP.  17 

would  at  least  have  a  good  opportunity  of  getting  an 
insight  into  the  character  of  Greek  politics,  and  he 
might  have  early  learnt  some  of  those  weak  points  in 
Greece  which  his  adroitness  subsequently  enabled  him 
to  turn  to  such  profitable  account. 

Philip,  after  bis  victories  over  the  lUyrians  and 
Paeonians,  which  for  a  time  at  least  made  Macedonia 
secure  on  the  land  side,  still  reigned  over  a  poor  and 
half-barbarous  kingdom.  He  had  much  to  do  before 
he  could  hope  t  j  become  a  considerable  power  in  the 
Greek  world.  As  yet,  he  did  not  possess  a  single  town 
on  the  coast.  He  had,  as  we  have  seen,  given  up 
Amphipolis  to  please  the  Athenians,  He  must  have 
been  surprised  to  find  that  they  did  not  make  haste  to 
recover  that  important  place.  But  they  committed  the 
blunder,  and  allowed  the  people  of  Amphipolis  to  remain 
their  own  masters.  Soon  afterwards,  in  358  b.  c.  ,  Philip 
thought  he  might  as  well  possess  himself  of  it;  and 
when  the  inhabitants  refused  to  surrender,  he  laid  siege 
to  the  city.  Envoys  were  sent  to  Athens,  asking  for 
help ;  but  it  is  possible  that  at  this  crisis  the  war  with 
the  allies  had  just  begun,  and  that  the  Athenians  may 
have  thus  found  themselves  fully  occupied.  Philip, 
too,  promised  them  in  a  very  civil  letter  that  he  would 
put  them  in  possession  of  it  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  it. 
The  Athenians  did  nothing,  though  it  could  not  have 
been  very  difficult  for  them  to  have  saved  the  place 
5»nd  secured  it  for  themselves.  This  was  indeed  short- 
sighted, as  they  now  again  hid  an  opportunity  of 
securing  a  commanding  position,  and  of  nipping  Philip's 
pcwor  in  the  bud.  It  was  one  of  those  errors  which 
can  never  be  retrieved.  Athens  lo^t  prestige,  as  well 
aiamost  useful  dependency.  When  Philip  took  the 
city,  Olynthus,  which  was  not  far  distant,  and  was  at 


IS  DEMOSTHENES. 

the  head  of  a  group  of  Greek  townships  in  the  penin- 
sula of  Chalcidice,  was  seriously  alarmed,  and  proposed 
an  alliance  to  Athens.  The  offer  was  rejected,  as  the 
Athenians,  it  seems,  still  wished  to  look  on  Philip  as 
their  friend,  and  were  persuaded  to  trust  his  promise?. 
The  cunning  prince  contrived  not  only  to  buy  off  the 
hostility  of  Olynthus,  but  actually  to  win  its  friend- 
ship and  to  become  Its  ally  by  the  cession  of  a 
disputed  strip  of  territory  near  Thessalonica.  The 
next  thing  he  did  was  to  venture  on  an  openly  hostile 
act  against  Athens  by  conquering  and  wresting  from 
her  a  most  important  possession,  the  city  of  Potidaea, 
on  the  gulf  of  Thermae.  This,  too,  he  gave  up  to  the 
Olynthians.  Pydna,  also,  on  the  shore  of  the  same 
gulf,  opposite  to  PotidsBa,  likewise  an  Athenian  pos- 
session, fell  into  his  hands  through  internal  treachery; 
and  Athens,  it  appears,  made  no  effort  to  save  the 
place.  Thus,  in  a  single  year,  858  B.C.,  Philip  gained 
three  most  valuable  positions  on  the  coast,  and  a  severe 
shock  was  given  to  Athenian  influence  in  the  north  of 
the  ^gean.  He  had  hitherto  been  poor;  now  he  had 
the  means  of  raising  an  ample  revenue.  Master  of 
Amphipolis,  he  had  free  access  to  the  gold  region  in 
the  neighborhood  east  of  the  Strymon.  Here  he 
founded  the  city  which  we  know  by  the  familiar  name 
of  Philippi.  He  had  now  a  well-organized  array,  and 
he  was  able  to  maintain  it.  In  little  more  than  two 
years  he  had  immensely  increased  the  strength  and 
resources  of  his  kingdom.  But  it  w^as  not  till  six 
years  afterwards  that  Macedon  was  felt  to  be  a  distinct 
menace  to  the  Greek  world. 


CHAPTER  II  [. 

EARLY  LIFE  OP  DEMOSTHENES. 

We  cannot  be  quite  certain  about  the  year  in  which 
Demosthenes  was  born.  The  accounts  are  conflictiug, 
and  we  are  thrown  back  on  somewhat  doubtful  infer- 
ences. The  year,  it  seems,  must  have  been  either  385- 
384  B.C.  or  382-381  B.C.  His  early  life  thus  coincided 
with  an  eventful  period,  and  witnessed  more  than  one 
remarkable  political  change  in  the  Greek  world.  In  the 
years  immediately  after  his  birth  the  supremacy  of 
Sparta  was  imquestioned.  Greece  lay  at  her  feet. 
Her  power  had  made  itself  felt  far  beyond  the  Pelo- 
ponnese,  even  on  the  northern  shores  of  the  .^gean. 
She  had  overthrown  the  city  which  might  have  become 
an  effectual  bulwark  against  the  terrible  king  of  Mace- 
don.  Olynthus  became  her  vassal  in  the  year  379  B.C. 
All  was  changed  eight  years  afterwards.  The  decisive 
battle  of  Leuctra,  in  371  B.C.,  struck  down  Sparta  and 
gave  the  ascendancy  to  Thebes.  For  a  few  years  Greece 
resounded  with  the  fame  of  her  two  illustrious  citizens, 
Epameinondas  and  Pelopidas.  But  when  she  lost 
Kpameinondas,  nine  years  after  Leuctra,  in  the  brilliant 
victory  of  Mantineia,  she  lost  with  him  the  supreme 
CDiitrol  of  Greek  politics,  retaining  merely  the  foremost 
rink  among  the  northern  states.    Meanwhile  she  had 

i3- 


20  DEMOSTHENES. 

given,  as  we  have  seen,  shelter  and  education  to  the 
future  destroyer  of  Greek  freedom. 

Amid»  these  changes  and  revolutions,  Demosthenes 
grew  up  to  manhood.  His  own  state,  Athens,  had 
achieved  nothing  specially  worthy  of  record  during 
this  period.  Still,  she  was  altogether  the  most  famous 
city  of  Greece,  and  was  commercially  prosperous.  The 
father  of  Demosthenes,  who  bore  the  same  name,  was 
a  rich  and  emiuenty  respectable  citizen.  He  was  a 
merchant  and  a  manufacturer,  and  belonged  to  the 
wealthy  middle  class.  His  property  was  distributed  in 
various  investments.  He  had  two  manufactories,  and 
each,  it  seems,  had  a  good  business.  One  was  a  sword 
and  knife  manufactory,  and  employed  thirty-two  slaves. 
The  other  was  a  cabinet  manufactory,  and  in  this 
twenty  slaves  were  employed.  He  had  also  money 
out  at  interest,  a  deposit  account  at  one  of  the  principal 
banks,  and  sums  lent,  according  to  a  very  prevalent 
Athenian  practice,  on  ship-cargoes.  He  had,  too,  a 
house  of  some  value,  and  good  furniture  and  plate; 
and  his  wife  was  an  heiress,  and  had  her  jewels  on  a 
tolerably  handsome  scale.  But  the  lady,  whose  name 
was  Cleobule,  was  not  of  pure  Athenian  blood,  and 
h'jr  b'.rth  and  antecedents  were  not  quite  what  could  be 
desired.  Her  father,  Gylon,  was  a  man  of  distinctly 
blemished  reputation.  He  had  been,  in  fact,  accused 
of  treason — the  charge  against  him  being  that  he  had 
betrayed  to  the  enemy  the  seaport  town  of  Nymphaeum 
in  the  Crimea.  He  did  not  appear  to  answer  the 
accusation,  and  was,  according  to  one  account  sentenced 
to  death  in  his  absence.  But  he  contrived  to  do  well 
for  himself.  He  went  to  Panticapaeum,  now  Kertch, 
in  the  Crimea,  then  the  capitol  of  the  kings  of  Bos- 
porus, and  there,  through  the  king's  favor,  obtained 


EABL  Y  LIF^  OF  DEMOSTHENES.  21 

a  grant  of  laud  and  married  a  rich  wife.  She  was 
sneeringly  spoken  of  at  Athens  as  a  barbarian  and  a 
Scythian — and  so  JEscbines  describes  her;  but  it  is 
quite  possible  that  she  may  have  been  the  daughter  of 
one  of  those  many  Greeks  who  had  settled  in  this 
remote  district  to  carry  on  the  business  of  exporting 
corn  to  Athens.  It  was  then,  as  now,  a  specially 
corn-growing  region.  Gylon,  it  seems,  made  the  most 
of  the  king's  favor,  and  traded  with  great  success. 
He  was  unquestionably  a  sharp,  shrewd  man ;  and  he 
sent  his  two  daughters  well  dowered  to  Athens,  and 
there  they  both  made  fairly  good  matches.  Both  got 
Athenian  citizens  for  their  husbands — the  one  marry- 
ing Demochares,  and  the  other  the  elder  Demosthenes. 
We  may  not  unreasonably  conjecture  that  the  mother 
of  Demosthenes  inherited  some  natural  ability  from  her 
sagacious  and  enterprising  father. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Demosthenes  to  be  left  aa 
orphan  when  only  seven  years  of  age,  and  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  unscrupulous  guardians.  His  father  died 
worth  fourteen  talents, — about  £3,500  of  our  money. 
This,  according  to  modern  notions,  is  a  very  moderate 
property;  but  at  Athens  it  was  sufficiently  large  to  place 
its  possessor  in  the  wealthiest  class,  and  to  render  him 
liable  to  the  highest  rate  of  direct  taxation.  There 
were  much  larger  fortunes,  no  doubt,  as  that  of  Nicias, 
which  is  said  to  have  amounted  to  100  talents,  or  about 
£24,000.  Alcibiades  was  even  richer;  and  Callias,  who 
lived  at  the  time  of  the  Persian  war,  and  secured  a 
good  share  of  the  plunder,  was  what  we  should  call  a 
millionaire,  being  reported  to  have  been  worth  200 
talents.  Athens,  as  we  have  seen,  was,  of  all  the  Greek 
cities,  by  far  the  richest,  and  it  always  contained  a 
number  of  well-to-do-citizens.     The  ordinary'  rate  of 


22  -  DEMOSTHENES. 

interest  was  extremely  high.  Money  lent  even  on  good 
security  fetched  from  12  to  20  per  cent. ;  and  some  in- 
vestments, those  especially  on  ship-cargoes— hazardous, 
no  doubt — were  yet  more  lucrative.  As  much  as  30 
per  cent,  was  now  and  then  paid  on  this  class  of  invest- 
ments. Demosthenes  asserts,  in  his  pleadings  against 
his  guardians,  that  a  third  part  of  his  estate  produced 
an  income  of  fifty  minas.  This  would  make  the 
entire  income  about  £600  a  year.  Now,  it  appears  that 
a  citizen  could  live  just  decently  at  Athens  on  some- 
thing like  seven  or  eight  minas  a-year,  or  about  £32 ; 
and  in  perfect  comfort  and  respectability  on  fifty 
minas,  or  about  £200  a-year,  provided  he  kept  clear  of 
the  various  costly  public  services  which  were  demanded 
from  the  rich.  Demosthenes,  therefore,  it  is  clear, 
having  but  one  sister,  ought  to  have  had  a  very  ampla 
fortune,  though  he  could  not  have  been  described  t.s 
extremely  wealthy.  His  father,  being  in  business, 
probably  got  25  or  even  30  per  cent,  for  a  large  part 
of  his  capital,  and  we  should  suppose  that  he  was  at 
Athens  in  much  the  same  position  as  a  man  with  from 
£2,000  to  £3,000  a-year  would  be  with  us.  Had  his 
will  been  faithfully  carried  out,  and  a  third  of  the 
income  been  set  apart  for  maintenance  and  education, 
and  two-thirds  profitably  invested,  the  son  must  have 
been  decidedly  rich  when  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  ten 
years  after  his  father's  death,  he  attained  his  majority. 
As  it  was,  he  found  himself  comparatively  poor. 
He  had  to  receive  something  less  than  two  tal(;nts,  and 
his  income  could  not  have  exceeded  from  £60  to  £70 
a-year.  His  father,  we  may  surmise,  had  misgivings 
about  the  administration  of  the  property,  as  he  practi- 
cally endeavored  to  bribe  the  three  guardians,  two  of 
whom  were  his  nephews,  into  a  faithful  discharge  of 


EARLY  LIFE  OF  DEMOSTHENES.  23 

tbeir  trust  by  giving  them  full  control  over  almost  one 
third  of  the  property.  His  sister's  son,  Aphobus,  was 
to  marry  the  widow,  with  a  fair  fortune,  and  to  have 
the  house  and  furniture  during  the  minority  of  Demos- 
thenes. His  brother's  son,  Demophon,  was  to  have 
two  talents,  and  to  marry  the  daughter  in  due  time. 
In  all  respects  he  seems  to  have  carefully  provided  for 
his  two  children,  aad  to  have  left  them  in  the  charge 
of  relatives  on  whose  fidelity  he  might  reasonably 
)  eclion.  The  result  can  be  ascribed  only  to  negligence 
and  dishonesty.  The  property  must  have  been  partly 
muddled  away,  partly  actually  embezzled.  Admitting 
that  some  of  the  investments  were  precarious,  and  that 
the  business  of  the  two  manufactories  was  simply  mis- 
managed, we  can  hardly  doubt  that  the  trustees  were 
unprincipled  as  well  as  utterly  careless.  It  is  true,  indeed, 
that  Demosthenes  was  taunted  by  his  rivaliEschines  with 
having  squandered  his  patrimony  in  ridiculous  follies; 
and  it  was  alleged  by  one  of  the  guardians,  in  defending 
the  action,  that  large  advances  had  been  made.  The 
boy  had,  it  would  seem,  rather  luxurious  tastes,  and 
in  the  last  two  years  of  his  minority  he  may  have 
indulged  them  freely.  But  this  very  inadequately 
explains  the  smallness  of  the  sums  handed  over  to  him. 
It  is  an  all  but  absolute  certainty  that  he  was  swindled 
out  of  his  property.  The  matter  ended  in  his  bringing 
an  action  against  Aphobus,  and  recovering  a  verdict 
for  ten  talents.  It  is  not  certain  whether  he  actually 
received  this  amount.  Aphobus  was  rich  and  influential, 
and  contrived  to  make  further  diflBculties.  We  have 
five  speeches  connected  with  this  action— three  against 
Aphobus,  and  two  against  a  brother-in-law  of  Aphobus, 
Onetor.  It  is  from  these  speeches  that  we  chiefly  get 
eur  information  about  the  property  of   Demosthenes. 


24  DEMOSTHENES. 

We  have  not  the  means  of  knowing  the  precise  results 
of  the  suit,  or  what  benefit,  if  any,  Demosthenes  de- 
rived from  it.  Much  of  the  estate  had  somehow  or 
other  disappeared,  and  he  had  to  enter  on  life  as  rather 
a  poor  instead  of  a  rich  man. 

It  is  probable  that  his  misfortunes  had  a  good  effect 
on  his  character.  They  may  have  been  the  source  of  his 
Intense  resolution  and  perseverance.  From  early  years 
he  had  a  weak  constitution,  and  shrank  from  the  vigor- 
ous physical  training  which  was  considered  an  essential 
element  in  a  Greek  education.  He  had  an  active 
mind,  and  a  strong  craving  for  intellectual  culture.  As 
became  his  position  and  expectations,  he  went  to  good 
schools — though  his  guardians,  if  we  may  believe  his 
statement,  were  shabby  enough  to  leave  his  school-fees 
unpaid.  He  had  a  passion  for  speeches  and  recitations; 
and  it  was  said  that  he  once  induced  his  schoolmaster 
to  go  with  him  to  hear  one  of  the  first  speakers  of  the 
day,  Callistratus,  who  was  delivering  a  great  political 
harangue  on  the  cession  of  the  border-town  Oropus  to 
the  Thebans.  The  occasion  may  have  been  a  turning- 
point  in  his  life.  But  he  had  an  unlucky  infirmity;  he, 
who  was  to  be  the  greatest  orator  of  all  time,  stammered 
in  his  boyhood  and  youth.  It  would  seem  as  if  his 
physical  defects  were  too  much  for  his  mental  vigor 
and  his  ambitious  aspirations. 

Plutarch  in  his  '  Life  of  Demosthenes '  gives  us  several 
interesting  details  about  his  study  and  preparation  for 
the  career  of  an  orator,  and  it  is  satisfactory  to  find 
that  so  high  an  authority  as  Mr.  Grote  thinks  that  they 
rest  on  good  evidence.  It  appsars  that  the  youth  put 
himself  under  the  instruction  of  Isseus,  one  of  the  first 
advocates  of  the  time,  who  was  frequently  retained  in 
cases  connected  with  will^  and  disputes  about  property. 


EARL  T  LIFE  OF  DEMOSTHENES.  25 

In  his  speeclies  against  his  guardians  he  is  said  to  have 
availed  himself  of  the  counsel  and  guidance  of  this 
eminent  lawyer.  But  the  most  fashionable  rhetoric- 
professor  of  the  day  was  Isocrates,  and  Demosthenes 
was  among  the  number  of  his  most  attentive  and  ad- 
miring hearers;  though  perhaps  we  must  not  believe  a 
story  according  to  which  he  asked  the  great  man  to 
teach  him  a  fifth  part  of  his  art  for  two  minas,  as  he 
could  not  afford  the  regular  fee  of  ten  minas,  about 
£40,  to  learn  the  whole.  One  would  like  to  believe 
that  he  heard  and  admired  some  of  the  discourses  of 
Plato,  who  was  then  in  the  height  of  his  philosophical 
glory;  and  there  is  a  tradition,  mentioned  by  Cicero, 
and  Tacitus,  to  this  effect.  The  literary  styles  of  the 
two  men  are  no  doubt  very  diverse;  yet,  as  Dr.  Tbirl- 
wall  suggests,  it  is  not  wholly  improbable  that  the 
lofty  morality  which  Demosthenes  ventured  to  intro- 
duce into  speeches  addressed  to  Athenian  assemblies 
and  law  courts  may  have  been  inspired  by  the  philos- 
opher. That  he  was  a  devoted  student  of  the  great 
History  of  Thucydides,  that  copied  it  out  eight  times, 
and  almost  knew  it  by  heart,  we  may  well  believe. 
One  of  the  ancient  critics,  Dionysius  of  Halycarnassus, 
has  elaborately  pointed  out  resemblances  in  the  orator 
to  the  historian.  Strangely  enough  Cicero,  in  his 
Orator,*  asks  the  question,  "What  Greek  orator  ever 
borrowed  anything  from  Thucydides?"  We  really  fail 
to  see  the  point  of  this  question,  unless  he  meant  to 
limit  the  term  orator  to  a  mere  pleader,  and  even  then 
we  think  he  is  wrong.  But  for  the  purpose  of  political 
oratory  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  both  the  style  and 
matter  of  Thucydides  might  be  studied  with  infinite 
profit  by  a  man  of  real  capacity. 

*  Chapter  ix. 


26  DEMOSTHEiVm. 

Nothing  but  the  utmost  energy  and  perseverance 
would  have  enabled  Demosthenes  to  make  himself  an 
orator.  He  had,  as  already  said,  to  surmount  the 
actual  physical  difficulties  of  a  feeble  constitution  and 
of  some  defect  in  his  organs  of  speech.  His  ultimate 
success  was  a  decisive  proof  of  a  singularly  exceptional 
force  of  character.  It  was  for  this,  indeed,  as  exhibited 
throughout  his  whole  career,  that  he  specially  deserves 
admiration.  We  are  told  that  he  practiced  speaking 
with  pebbles  in  his  mouth ;  that  he  strengthened  his 
lungs  and  his  voice  by  reciting  as  he  ran  up  hill ;  that 
he  declaimed  on  the  seashore  amid  the  noise  of  waves 
and  storms.  He  would  even  pass  two  or  three  months 
continuously  in  a  subterranean  cell,  shaving  one  side 
of  his  head,  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  show  himself 
in  public,  to  the  interruption  of  his  rhetorical  exercises. 
But  all  this  patient  and  laborious  practice  did  not 
procure  immediate  success.  No  public  assembly  could 
be  more  critical  and  fastidious  than  that  of  Athens. 
Demosthenes  failed  repeatedly.  One  of  the  Oxd  citizc-is 
found  him  on  one  of  these  occasions  wandering  about 
di^consolately  in  the  Piraeus,  and  tried  to  cheer  him 
up  by  saying,  "  You  have  a  way  oi  speaking  which  re- 
minds me  of  Peric.es,  but  you  lose  ourself  through 
mere  timidity  and  cowardice. "  ..Another  Mme  he  was 
returning  to  his  home  in  deep  dcjccdor,  when  Patyrus, 
a  great  and  popular  actor,  with  whom  ho  wp,s  well  ac- 
quainted, entered  into  conversation  with  him.  Demos- 
thenes complained  that  though  he  was  the  most  pains- 
taking of  all  orators,  and  had  almost  sacrificed  his 
health  to  his  intense  application,  yet  he  could  find  no 
f  ivor  with  the  people,  and  that  drunken  seamen  and 
other  illiterate  persons  were  listened  to  in  preference  to 
himself.      "True,"  replied  the  actor,  "  but  I  will  pro- 


EARL  7  LIFE  OF  DEMOSTHENES.  27 

vide  you  a  remedy  if  you  will  repeat  to  me  some  speech 
In  Euripides  or  Sophocles."  Demosthenes  did  so,  and 
then  Satyrus  recited  the  same  speech  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  seemed  to  the  orator  quite  a  different 
passage.  With  the  aid  of  such  hints,  joined  to  his  own 
indefatigable  industry,  he  at  last  achieved  a  distinct 
success  in  the  law  courts,  and  his  services  as  an  advo- 
cate were  in  great  request. 

After  all  he  had  not  much  of  which,  according  to 
our  notions,  a  man  could  reasonably  claim.  Suc- 
cess came  to  him  very  early  in  life.  He  was,  as  we 
should  say,  in  large  practice  at  the  bar  when  he  was 
considerably  under  thirty — an  age  at  which  a  young 
English  barrister  hardly  hopes  for  a  brief.  Doubtless, 
at  Athens  tlrjre  were  opportunities  for  displaying  ora- 
torical ability  which  do  not  exist  in  England.  One 
thoroughly  successful  speech  be' ore  the  popular  assem- 
bly might  well  make  the  fortune  of  a  man  as  an  advo- 
cate. To  make  such  a  speech  required,  we  may  be  sure, 
marked  ability  and  considerable  training;  but  once 
made,  it  must  at  least  have  opened  a  career  in  the  law 
courts.  Ath::nian  law,  too,  was  probably  less  intricate 
and  difficult  "han  English.  It  had  not  such  a  variety 
of  branches,  as  seem  to  be  indispensable  in  so  complex 
a  community  as  our  own.  The  study  of  it  must  thus 
have  been  a  much  less  arduous  task  than  that  which 
lies  before  the  English  lawyer.  But  it  was  an  admi- 
rable preparation  for  political  life.  Law  and  politics 
were  intermingled  at  Athens  very  much  more  than 
among  ourselves;  and  a  lawyer  was  almost  necessarily 
something  of  a  politician.  There,  questions  which  we 
regarded  as  purely  political,  and  which  would  be  dis- 
cussed with  U3  only  in  Parliament,  might  come  befor.-; 
a  law  court.      An  accusation,  for  instance,  might  be 


28  JJJ£Moy£HEIiL'S. 

preferred  against  a  man  for  proposing  a  law  or  a  decree 
quite  at  variance  with  the  spirit  of  the  constitution. 
Such  cases  were  frequent.  It  was  in  a  prosecution  of 
this  nature  that  Demosthenes,  who  for  some  few  years 
had  had  a  good  practice  as  a  barrister  in  civil  and 
criminal  causes,  made  what  we  may  fairly  call  his  first 
appearance  as  a  political  adviser. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DEMOSTHENES  ENTERS  POLITICAL  LIFE. 

In  all  democracies  much  will  be  expected  from  the 
rich.  This  was  the  rale  in  the  Greek  states,  and  especi- 
ally at  Athens.  There  the  constitution  demanded  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  public  spirit,  and  prescribed  various 
modes  in  which  it  was  to  display  itself.  Athenians  loved 
a  bright  joyous  life,  and  the  wealthier  of  them  were 
under  legal  obligations  to  minister  to  the  popular  tastes 
and  contribute  to  the  public  amusements.  There  was 
a  good  side  to  all  this.  It  made  the  rich  feel  that  they 
must  not  use  their  riches  merely  for  their  own  selfish 
enjoyment,  but  that  it  ought  to  be  the  glory  of  an  Athe- 
nian citizen  of  fortune  to  put  happiness  and  refinement 
within  the  reach  of  every  member  of  the  community. 
Pericles,  in  the  famous  funeral  oration,  the  substance  of 
which  Thucydides  has  given  us,  had  boasted  how  it  was 
the  peculiar  genius  of  Athens  to  combine  mlrthfulness 
and  gaiety  with  a  strong  sense  of  political  responsibility. 

Poetry  and  music  were  an  essential  part  of  an  Athe- 
nian's life.  They  were  intimately  connected  with  all 
the  religious  festivals.  With  us  the  pleasures  of  the 
opera  are  necessarily  confined  to  a  select  few.  At 
Athens  the  poorest  citizen  was  enabled  to  gratify  his 
taste  for  such  pleasures.  The  law  imposed  on  a  man 
with  a  certain  amount  of  property  the  liability  of  hav- 

2) 


30  DEMOSTHENES. 

ing  to  provide  a  chorus  of  singers  or  musicians  on  some 
rrcat  public  occasion.  He  had  to  bear  ail  the  expenses 
llimself.  Having  made  up  his  number,  he  had  to  ob- 
tain a  teacher  or  choir-master,  and  to  pay  him  for  his 
inotruction.  Ho  had  also,  it  seems,  to  board  and  lodge 
the  chorus  during;  the  time  of  its  training,  and  he  had, 
further,  to  furnish  them  with  suitable  dresses.  All 
this,  of  course,  he  could  do  by  deputy;  but  if  he  was 
anxious,  as  ho  usually  would  be,  to  do  it  with  credit  to 
himself,  he  would  find  that  he  must  give  the  matter 
his  personal  attention.  There  was  a  prize  for  the  best 
performance;  and  this,  if  not  instrinsically  valuable, 
was  sure  to  be  coveted.  The  choragus,  as  he  was 
called,  had  a  stall  assigned  him  in  the  theatre,  and  it 
was  part  of  his  duty  to  be  present  during  the  ceremony 
with  his  crown  and  robe  of  office.  There  seems  to 
have  been  every  variety  of  chorus — tragic  and  comic 
choruses,  pyrrhic  choruscs,and  choruses  of  liutc-players. 
The  expense  of  providing  them  might  range  from  £100 
to  £1,200— a  large  ^um  in  comparison  with  Athenian 
wealth.  Still  this  amount  was,  it  appears,  often  ex- 
ceeded in  an  eager  competition  for  the  prize.  The  suc- 
cessful choragus  was  certain  to  be  a  popular  citizen. 

This,  then,  was  one  of  the  regular  charges  on  the 
wealthier  class.  There  were  others.  Athleticism  and 
gymnastic  games  were  a  prominent  feature  in  Greek 
life.  At  Athens  one  of  the  amusements  in  which  tliey 
specially  delighted  was  running  with  the  torch,  the 
runners  carrying  wax  lights  in  their  hands,  whicli  it 
was  their  object  not  to  extinguish.  The  race  in  the 
time  of  Socrates  began  to  be  run  on  horseback,  and  the 
training  and  preparation  for  it  became  one  of  the  pub- 
lic services,  which  the  rich  had  to  undertake.  The 
gymnasiarch,  or  director  of  these  games,  had  to  defray 


DEMOSTHENES  ENTERS  POLITICAL  LIFE.  31 

all  the  expenses  connected  with  the  spectacle;  he  had 
to  see  to  and  to  pay  for  the  traioing  of  the  competitors, 
which  was  on  a  very  elaborate  scale,  and  might  involve 
a  comparatively  heavy  outlay.  Another  still  more 
burdensome  obligal ion  was  the  conduct  of  religious  em- 
bassies to  various  places.  This  was  regarded  as  a  duty 
of  the  highest  and  most  sacked  kind;  and  whenever  the 
State  sent  out  a  special  commission  to  any  of  the 
ancient  seats  of  Greek  worship,  such  as  Delos  or  Del- 
phi, to  consult  the  oracle  of  the  god  or  to  offer  a 
tolemn  sacrifice,  it  was  represented  by  citizens  of 
wealth  and  distinction.  Anything  like  parsimony  on 
such  an  occasion  would  have  been  thought  peculiarly 
discreditable,  and  it  was  the  tendency  of  an  Athenian 
to  go  to  the  opposite  extreme.  The  head  of  the  sacred 
mission  entered  the  city  whither  he  was  bound  with  a 
crown  of  gold  and  in  a  splendidly  equipped  chariot, 
Alcibiades  astonished  the  Greek  world  at  the  Olympic 
festival  with  his  magnificent  horses  and  his  princely 
expenditure.  Even  in  an  ordinary  way,  however, 
the  performance  of  this  duty  must  have  been  a 
costly  service.  A  minor  expense  was  that  of  giying 
a  public  dinner  to  the  particular  tribe  of  which  a 
man  was  a  member.  This  too  was  a  burden  imposed 
on  the  rich.  Last  of  all  came  the  obligation  to 
maintain  the  fleet  in  eflSciency, — Athens'  defence  and 
glory.  This — the  trierarchy,  as  it  was  called — was  a 
service  of  wliich  we  are  continually  hearing  in  the 
speeches  of  Demosthenes,  and  to  place  it  on  a  satis, 
factory  footing  was  an  object  he  had  specially  at  heart. 
All  these  services,  it  must  be  understood,  were  legally 
compulsory — not  merely  enforced  on  the  rich  by  public 
opinion,  as  in  our  time.  At  Athens,  no  citizen  who 
was  registered  as  the  possessor  of  a  certain  amount  of 


32  DEMOSTHENES, 

property  could  evade  them.  A  man  in  England  may 
be  obliged  to  serve  the  oflSce  of  sheriff  once  in  a  way, 
but  to  try  to  create  public  spirit  by  law  would  be 
repugnant  to  our  notions.  In  a  Greek  state  there  was 
a  much  more  distinct  theory  as  to  what  each  citizen 
owed  to  the  commonwealth;  and  Athens,  the  veiy 
type  of  G-reek  democracy,  felt  it  most  natural  to  make 
these  demands  on  her  richer  classes.  At  the  same 
time,  she  had  thought  fit  to  exempt  certain  x>ersons  from 
the  operation  of  this  principle.  There  were  a  few 
whose  meritorious  services  might  be  fairly  considered 
to  have  earned  them  such  an  exemption — the  trierarchy 
alone  excepted.  The  privilege  in  some  cases  was  ex- 
tended to  their  descendants.  Two  names  were  cherished 
at  Athens  with  j>eculiarly  grateful  remembrance,  those 
of  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton,  the  illustrious  tyran- 
nicides, who  were  believed  to  have  given  freedom  and 
equality  to  their  city.  To  their  offspring  forever  was 
granted  immunity  from  the  public  burdens  we  have 
just  described.  In  like  manner,,  a  statesman  or  a 
general  who  had  deserved  well  of  his  country  might 
be  rewarded  with  the  same  privilege  for  himself  and 
his  children.  With  us  such  men  occasionally  obtain 
pensions,  which,  in  a  few  instances,  are  continued  to 
their  descendants.  With  the  Athenians,  they  enjoyed 
what  was  perhaps  almost  an  equivalent — exemption 
from  costly  and  burdensome  services. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  many  abuses  might  creep  into 
this  system;  and  that  even  without  any  very  glaring 
abuses,  there  might  be  much  envy  and  dissatisfaction. 
Privileges  of  any  kind  are  sure  to  give  offence,  and  in 
a  democratical  community  they  cannot  fail  to  furnish  a 
handle  to  demagogues  and  politicians.  We  are  there- 
fore not  surprised  to  find  that  at  Athens  in  356  b.c,  a 


DEM08THENE8  ENTERS  POLITICAL  LIFE.  33 

law  was  proposed  and  carried  repealing  all  exemptions 
and  immunities.  The  author  of  the  law  was  a  certain 
Leptines,  who  was  no  doubt  put  forward  as  the  spokes- 
man of  a  considerable  party.  He  contrived  to  get  a 
measure  of  a  very  sweeping  kind  passed,  so  that  not 
only  were  all  existing  grants  of  immunity  abolished, 
but  it  was  declared  illegal  to  make  such  grants  in  the 
future,  and  even  to  ask  ^or  them  was  forbidden  under 
a  heavy  penalty.  We  do  not  know  whether  there  was 
any  special  impulse  or  provocation  under  which  the 
people  of  Athens  allowed  themselves  to  be  persuaded 
into  passing  this  law.  It  roused,  of  course,  a  strong 
opposition,  the  leader  of  which  was  a  son  of  the  famous 
Chabrias,  who  had  fallen  in  his  country's  cause,  fighting 
on  board  his  ship  at  the  siege  of  Chios.  The  son  had 
inherited  from  his  father  one  of  these  honorable  grants 
of  immunity.  He  was,  it  seems,  himself  utterly  un- 
worthy of  it;  but  he  represented  a  principle,  and  had, 
we  may  be  sure,  a  numerous  following.  Demosthenes 
became  his  advocate,  and  in  the  year  subsequent  to 
the  passing  of  the  law,  he  assailed  it  in  a  speech  which 
has  always  been  much  admired. 

This  was  his  first  political  effort.  He  was  quite  a 
young  man  at  the  time— thirty  years  of  age  at  most, 
probably  less.  The  speech  he  delivered  does  not 
exhibit  the  fire  and  force  of  some  of  his  subsequent 
oration>;  it  is  calm  and  argumentative,  and  deserves 
the  epithet  of  "subtle"  which  Cicero*  applies  to  it. 
It  is  in  fact  a  specimen  throughout  of  close  and  con- 
secutive reasoning.  Leptines'  proposal  was  no  doubt 
popular,  and  it  was  supported  by  many  plausible  argu- 
ments. The  circumstances  of  the  State  were  such  as 
made    any    exemptions  and  immunities  from  public 

♦Orator,  c.  xzxi. 


34  DEMOSTHENES. 

burdens  of  vjry  questionable  expediency.  Athens  had 
been  seriously  impoverished  by  her  recent  disastrous 
war  with  her  allies,  and  many  of  her  richer  citizens 
must,  for  a  time  at  least,  have  been  sorely  straitened 
in  their  resources.  To  exempt  such  wealthy  men  from 
burdens  which  there  was  not  too  much  wealth  left  to 
bear,  might  well  seem  a  distinct  loss  to  the  State.  It 
increased  the  diflSculty  of  pijpviding  for  those  public 
festivals  which  were  so  dear  to  the  people.  It  could 
also  no  doubt  be  plausibly  argued  that  exemptions  had 
been  granted  too  freely,  and  now  and  then  to  thoroughly 
unworthy  persons.  Many  a  man  not  particularly  rich 
would  think  himself  aggrieved,  when  he  saw  some  one 
far  richer  than  himself  altogether  exempt.  The  favored 
few  were  sure  to  be  envied,  and  might  almost  be  said 
to  be  defrauding  the  State  of  what  they  owed  it.  The 
object,  in  fact,  of  the  law  of  Leptines  was,  it  might  be 
contended,  to  insure  for  Athens  the  due  performance  of 
services  which  she  had  a  right  to  claim  from  every  citizen 
of  ample  means.  The  burden,  he  argued,  ought  to  fall 
on  all  such;  no  exemptions  ought  to  be  granted,  as  it 
was  likely  they  would  be  granted  unwisely,  and  the 
examples  of  other  states,  such  as  Sparta  and  Thebes, 
showed  that  these  grants  were  unnecessary.  Besides, 
merit  at  Athens  was  rewarded  in  other  ways;  and  in 
sweeping  away  such  rewards  as  these,  they  would  be 
really  abolishing  what  was  not  needed  by  the  posses- 
sors, and  was  at  the  same  time  injurious  to  the  State. 
Thus  the  new  law  seemed  on  the  surface  a  good  one, 
and  must  have  enlisted  popular  sympathy.  It  promised 
to  get  rid  of  invidious  privileges,  to  distribute  public 
burdens  equitably,  and  to  provide  for  the  celebration 
of  the  festivals  and  games  with  becoming  splendor. 


DEMOSTHENES  ENTERS  POLITICAL  LIFE.  35 

The  occasion  was  thus  clearly  one  to  task  all  the 
powers  of  an  opposition  speaker.  If  we  want  a 
rnodern  analogy,  we  may  suppose  a  motion  brought 
forward  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  a  time  of 
national  distress,  when  every  tax  would  be  acutely 
felt,  to  abolish  all  pensions  ever  granted  to  deserving 
men  and  to  their  children.  It  is  conceivable  that  such 
a  proposition  might  find  supporters  at  a  trying  crisis, 
and  become  a  powerful  party-cry.  Demosthenes  may 
well  have  had  an  uphill  battle  to  fight.  But  he  took 
the  right  ground,  and  rested  his  case  on  the  highest 
moral  principles  and  the  most  enlightened  view  of 
political  expediency.  The  faith  and  honor  of  the 
State,  he  maintained,  must  be  superior  to  all  other 
considerations.  We  may  say  that  the  text  of  his 
speech  was:  "A  good  name  is  better  than  riches." 

First,  he  argued  that  it  was  unjust  to  deprive  the 
people  of  the  power  to  grant  special  privileges  because 
they  had  sometimes  granted  them  improperly. 

"  You  might  as  well  take  from  them  all  their  constitu- 
tional rights  because  they  do  not  always  exercise  them 
wisely.  Even  if  a  few  undeserving  persons  received  these 
privileges,  this  was  better  than  that  none  should  be  con- 
ferred, and  that  a  powerful  encouragement  to  patriotism 
should  be  withdrawn.  To  revoke  gifts  which  the  State 
had  bestowed  %vould  be  a  scandalous  breach  of  the 
national  faith.  It  would  cast  a  slur  on  democratic 
government,  and  create  an  impression  that  such  govern- 
ments Avere  as  little  to  be  trusted  as  those  of  oligarchs 
and  despots.  It  would  be  base  ingratitude  to  many 
distinguished  foreigners — for  example,  to  the  king  of 
Bosporus,  from  whose  country  much  corn  was  exported 
to  Athens,  free  of  duty — and  such  men  for  the  future 
would  not  care  to  befriend  the  State  in  a  time  of  need. 


36  DEM08THENE8. 

It  was  nothing  to  the  purpose  to  speak  of  Sparta  and 
Thebes,  as  proofs  that  these  grants  of  exemption  were 
not  required.  The  whole  genius  and  character  of  those 
States  were  so  radically  different,  that  no  conclusion 
could  be  reasonably  drawn  from  them  as  to  what  suited 
Athenians.  It  was  of  supreme  importance  that  Athens, 
as  the  noblest  representative  of  Greece,  should  value 
above  all  things  a  character  for  justice,  generosity,  and 
public  spirit.  To  attempt  to  bind  her  for  all  future 
time  by  a  law  which  might  be  a  hurtful  and  dangerous 
check  on  patriotic  impulses  must  be  inexpedient.  No 
one  could  forsee  what  course  politics  might  take,  and  it 
was  possible  that  citizens  like  Harmodius  and  Aris- 
togeiton  might  again  be  needed.  All  human  legislation 
must  take  account  of  such  possibilities  and  contin- 
gencies, improbable  as  they  might  seem  at  the  time. 
The  law  of  Leptines  was,  in  fact,  an  offence  to  Nemesis, 
which  ever  waits  on  arrogance  and  presumption." 

These  were  some  of  the  chief  arguments  with  which 
Demosthenes  combated  the  reasonings  of  his  opponent. 
In  one  passage  he  reminds  his  audience  how  careful 
Athens  had  been  in  the  past  of  her  good  name. 

"  You  have  to  consider  not  merely  whether  you  love 
money,  but  whether  you  love  also  a  good  name,  which 
you  are  more  anxious  after  than  money;  and  not  you 
only,  but  your  ancestors,  as  I  can  prove.  For  when  they 
had  got  wealth  in  abundance,  they  expended  it  all  in 
pursuit  of  honor.  For  glory's  sake  they  never  shrank 
from  any  danger,  but  persevered  to  the  last,  spending 
even  their  private  fortunes.  Instead  of  a  good  name, 
this  law  fastens  an  opprobrium  en  the  commonwealth^ 
unworthy  both  of  your  ancestors  and  yourselves.  It 
begets  three  of  the  greatest  reproaches — the  reputa- 
tion of  being  envious,  faithless  and  ungrateful.    That 


DEMOSTHENESi  ENTERS  POLITICAL  LIFE.  37 

it  is  altogether  foreign  to  your  character  to  establish  a 
law  like  this,  I  will  endeavor  to  prove  in  a  few  words 
by  recounting  one  of  the  former  acts  of  the  State. 
The  Thirty  Tyrants  are  said  to  have  borrowed  money 
from  the  Lacedaemonians  to  attack  the  party  in  the 
Piraeus.  When  unanimity  was  restored,  and  these 
troubles  were  composed,  the  Lacedaemonians  sent  am- 
bassadors and  demanded  payment  of  their  money. 
Upon  this  there  arose  a  debate,  and  some  contended 
that  the  borrowers,  the  city  party,  should  pay;  others 
advised  that  it  should  be  the  first  proof  of  harmony  to 
join  in  discharging  the  debt.  The  people,  we  know, 
determined,  themselves  to  contribute,  and  share  in  the 
expense,  to  avoid  breaking  any  article  of  their  conven- 
tion. Then,  were  it  not  shameful  if,  at  that  time,  you 
chose  to  contribute  money  for  the  benefit  of  persons 
who  had  injured  you,  rather  than  break  your  word,  yet 
now,  when  it  is  in  your  power,  without  cost,  to  do 
justice  to  your  benefactors  by  repealing  this  law,  you 
should  prefer  to  break  your  word?  " 

He  argues,  that  the  envious,  grudging  spirit  displayed 
in  the  law  is,  of  all  things,  most  alien  to  Athenian 
feeling. 

"Every  possible  reproach  should  be  avoided,  but 
most  of  all,  that  of  being  envious.  Why?  Because 
envy  is  altogether  the  mark  of  a  bad  disposition,  and 
to  have  this  feeling  is  wholly  unpardonable.  Besides, 
abhorring,  as  our  commonwealth  does,  everything  dis- 
graceful, there  is  no  reproach  from  which  she  is  further 
removed  than  from  the  imputation  of  being  envious. 
Observe  how  strong  are  the  proofs.  In  the  first  place, 
you  are  the  only  people  who  have  state  fuiierals  for 
the  dead,  and  funeral  orations  in  which  you  glorify  the 
actions  of  brave  men.    Such  a  custom  is  that  of  a  people 


38  -     DEMOSTHENES. 

which  admires  virtue,  and  does  not  envy  others  who 
are  honored  for  it.  In  the  next  place,  you  have  ever 
bestowed  the  highest  rewards  upon  those  who  win  the 
garlands  in  gymnastic  contests;  nor  have  you,  because 
but  few  are  born  to  partake  of  such  rewards,  envied 
the  parties  receiving  them,  nor  abridged  your  honors 
on  that  account.  Add  to  these  striking  evidences  that 
no  one  appears  ever  to  have  surpassed  our  State  in 
liberality— such  munificence  has  she  displayed  in  re- 
quiting services.  All  these  are  manifestations  of  justice, 
virtue,  magnanimity.  Do  not  destroy  the  character  for 
which  our  State  has  all  along  been  renowned;  do  not, 
in  order  that  Leptines  may  wreak  his  personal  malice 
upon  some  whom  he  dislikes,  deprive  the  State  and 
yourselves  of  the  honorable  name  which  you  have 
enjoyed  throughout  all  time.  Regard  this  as  a  contest 
purely  for  the  dignity  of  Athens,  whether  it  is  to  be 
maintained  the  same  as  before,  or  to  be  impaired  and 
degraded." 

The  following  passage  is  near  the  conclusion  of  the 
speech.  He  is  arguing  against  the  impolicy  of  binding 
the  Stale  for  the  future  by  such  a  law : 

"  To  one  thing  more  I  beg  your  attention.  This  law 
cannot  be  good  which  makes  the  same  provision  for  the 
future  as  the  past.  *No  one  shall  be  exempt,'  it  says, 
*  not  even  the  descendents  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogei- 
ton.'  Good.  •  Kor  shall  it  bo  lawful  to  grant  exemptions 
hereafter.'  Not  if  similar  men  arise ?  Blame  former 
doings  as  you  may,  know  you  also  the  future?  Oh, 
but  we  are  far  from  expecting  anything  of  the  kind. 
I  trust  we  are;  but  beiug  human,  our  language  and  our 
law  should  be  such  as  not  to  shock  religious  sentiment; 
and  while  we  look  for  good  fortune,  and  implore 
heaven  to  grant  it,  we  will  re;rard  all  fortune  as  sub* 


DEMOSTHENES  ENTERS  POLITICAL  LIFE.  39 

ject  to  human  casualties.  The  future,  I  take  it,  is  un- 
certain to  all  men,  and  small  occasions  are  productive 
of  great  events.  Therefore  we  will  be  moderate  in 
prosperity,  and  show  that  we  have  an  eye  to  the 
future." 

It  may  he  said  that  there  is  much  of  a  modern  tone 
and  character  about  this  speech.  Its  arguments  are 
those  of  a  constitutional  lawyer  and  of  a  far-sighted 
politician.  It  is  quiet  and  temperate,  and  at  the  same 
time  singularly  convincing.  It  was  successful  in  its 
Immediate  object,  and  it  must  have  established  the 
reputation  of  Demosthenes  as  a  political  debater  of  the 
first  rank.  From  this  time  he  must  have  felt  but 
little  timidity  or  hesitation  in  addressing  that  critical 
audience—the  Athenian  popular  assembly. 


CHAPTER  V. 

EARLT  SPEECHES  OF  DEMOSTHENES  ON  FOEEIGN  POLICY. 

Persia  in  the  fourtli  century  B.C.  was  a  more  con- 
siderable power  than  we  might  have  supposed  from  the 
comparative  ease  with  which  it  was  overthrown  by 
Alexander.  The  Great  King,  as  he  was  always  called, 
was  in  the  possession  of  immense  resources.  Financially 
he  was  much  stronger  than  the  Greek  world,  though  his 
military  inferiority  had  been  more  than  once  clearly 
proved.  He  was  still  looked  on  by  the  Greeks  generally 
with  a  sort  of  wondering  awe.  He  ruled  in  some  fashion 
a  vast  empire,  and  held  it  together  by  means  of  satraps 
and  vassal  princes,  notwithstanding  occasional  serious 
revolts.  He  had  had  indeed,  in  past  days,  to  acknowl- 
edge the  independence  of  the  Asiatic  Greeks;  still  he 
was  always  distinctly  felt  as  a  force  in  Greek  politics, 
with  which  from  time  to  time  he  was  brought  into 
contact.  On  the  whole,  he  was  regarded  as  an  enemy  ; 
but  the  unfortunate  want  of  anything  like  hearty  union 
among  the  states  of  Greece  tended  to  weaken  this  feel- 
ing, and  to  make  combined  action  against  him  all  but 
impossible.  There  was  always,  however,  a  vague  fear 
that  he  might  some  day,  if  violently  provoked,  crush 
the  Greek  world  beneath  the  weight  of  a  huge  bar- 
barian invasion. 

40 


EABLT  SPEECHES  ON  FOREIGN  POLICY.    41 

In  the  year  356  B.C.,  the  second  year  of  Athens'  war 
■with  her  revolted  alhes,  this  fear  rose,  at  Athens  at  least, 
to  a  positive  panic.  Greek  generals,  as  we  have  seen, 
occasionally  found  it  convenient  to  take  service  under 
some  Persian  satrap,  for  the  sake  of  the  liberal  pay 
on  which  they  could  confidently  reckon.  In  the  year 
above  mentioned,  Chares  was  in  command  of  a  fleet 
which  Athens  had  sent  out  to  put  down  her  rebellious 
subjects  in  the  Islands  of  the  ^gean.  He  was  a  man 
thoroughly  of  the  adventurer  type;  and  when  he  found 
that  he  could  not  pay  his  troops,  which  were  for  the 
most  part  foreign  mercenaries,  he  carried  off  his  arma- 
ment on  his  own  responsibility  to  the  aid  of  Artabanus, 
the  satrap  of  the  country  south  of  the  Propontis,  who 
was  then  in  revolt  against  the  Great  King.  Artabanus 
was,  at  the  time,  in  sore  need  of  help;  but  Chares 
gained  for  him  a  brilliant  victory  over  the  king's  forces, 
and  he  received  for  himself -^nd  his  soldiers  a  liberal  re- 
ward. The  proceeding  was,  of  course,  utterly  irreg- 
ular, and  gave  great  offence  at  Athens;  but  the  success 
reconciled  them  to  it.  The  King  of  Persia  was  natur- 
ally very  indignant,  and  sent  an  embassy  to  Athens  to 
complain  of  this  unprovoked  aggression.  Soon  it  was 
rumored  that  he  was  preparing  a  fleet  of  300  galleys 
to  aid  their  revolted  allies  and  to  attack  their  city. 
There  was  intense  excitement.  Peace  was  immediately 
concluded  with  the  allies,  but  there  was  a  strong  feeling 
in  favor  of  declaring  war  against  Persia.  Now,  it 
was  said,  was  the  time  for  an  appeal  to  Phanhellenic 
sentiment,  and  to  endeavor  to  unite  Greece  against  her 
old  enemy.  We  can  well  imagine  that  such  language 
was  likely  to  meet  with  a  response  in  many  quarters, 
and  that  it  might  well  seem  patriotic,  and  even  prudent. 


42  DEMOSTHENES. 

In  this  case,  again,  Demosthenes  thought  it  his  duty 
to  protest.  He  did  so  in  a  speech  delivered  in  354  b.c. 
He  must  have  been,  in  all  probability,  on  the  unpop- 
ular side.  He  had,  too,  against  him  the  opinion  of 
the  famous  and  clever  rhetorician,  Isocrates,  who  had 
urged  in  one  of  his  pamphlets  the  expediency  of  a 
Panhellenic  combination  against  Persia.  The  party  of 
Eubulus,  backed  up  by  a  number  of  orators  and  dema- 
gogues, supported  this  policy.  To  Demosthenes  it 
seemed  an  idle  dream — the  preposterous  Imagination  of 
a  knot  of  political  adventurers.  The  speech  in  which 
he  opposed  it  is  calm  and  statesmanlike.  "  In  no  one 
of  his  speeches,"  says  Mr.  Grote,  "is  the  spirit  of 
practical  wisdom  more  predominant  than  in  this  his 
earliest  known  discourse  to  the  public  Assembly."  He 
tells  his  excited  countrymen  some  very  plain  home- 
truths.  "The  Greeks,"  he  frankly  says,  "are  too 
jealous  of  each  other  to  be  capable  of  uniting  in  an 
aggressive  war.  They  might  indeed  do  so  in  a  war  of 
self-defence.  Should  Athens  declare  war,  the  King  of 
Persia  would  be  able  to  purchase  aid  from  the  Greeks 
themselves.  Such  a  step  would  consequently  lagr  bare 
the  worst  weaknesses  of  the  Greek  world.  Their  right 
policy  was  to  put  Athens  in  a  posture  of  defence,  that 
she  might  not  be  attacked  unprepared.  They  must  re- 
organize their  fleet.  They  must  not  shrink  from  personal 
military  service  and  lean  upon  foreign  mercenaries. 
They  must  not  rest  contentedly  on  the  glorious  deeds  of 
their  ancestors,  but  uphold  the  dignity  of  their  State  by 
themselves  imitating  their  deeds,  whatever  temporary 
sacrifices  it  might  cost  them.  And  they  should  seek 
to  rally  round  Athens  a  host  of  confederates,  united  to 
her  by  the  bonds  of  common  interest  and  mutual  con- 
fidence"   Borne  of  theee  tbpice  are  fiuch  as^  tinder 


EARL  Y  SPEECHES  ON  FOREIGN  POLICY.    43 

critical  circumstances,  it  must  have  required  much 
moral  courage  to  urge. 

A  few  passages  from  the  speech  will  give  the  reader 
an  idea  of  Demosthenes'  views  about  Persia,  about  the 
difficulty  of  united  action  against  that  power,  and  the 
immediate  duties  of  the  Athenians  themselves: 

"I  hold  the  King,"  he  says,  "to  be  the  common 
enemy  of  all  the  Greeks.  Still  I  would  not  for  this 
reason  advise  you  without  the  rest  to  undertake  a  war 
agaai<t  him.  The  Greeks  themselves,  I  observe,  are 
not  Triends  to  one  another.  On  the  contrary,  some 
have  more  confidence  in  the  King  than  in  certain  of 
their  own  people.  Such  being  the  case,  I  deem  it 
expedient  and  just,  that  all  necessary  preparations  be 
made,  and  that  this  should  be  the  groundwork  of  your 
resolution.  Were  there  any  plain  proof  that  the  King 
of  Persia  was  about  to  attack  the  Greeks,  I  think  they 
would  join  alliance,  and  be  extremely  grateful  to  those 
^'ho  sided  with  them  and  defended  them  against  him. 
But  if  we  rush  into  a  quarrel  before  his  intentions  are 
declared,  I  am  afraid  that  we  shall  be  driven  into  a 
war  with  both — with  the  King  and  with  the  people 
whom  we  are  axious  to  protect.  He  will  suspend  his 
designs,  if  we  really  have  resolved  to  attack  the  Greeks, 
will  give  money  to  some,  and  promise  friendship;  while 
they,  in  the  wish  to  carry  on  their  own  war  with 
better  success  and  intent  on  similar  objects,  will  disre- 
gard the  common  safety  of  the  Greek  world.  I  be- 
seech you  not  to  betray  our  country  into  such  embar- 
rassment and  folly.  You,  I  perceive,  cannot  adopt  the 
same  policy  in  regard  to  the  king  as  the  other  Greeks 
can.  Many  of  them,  I  conceive,  may  very  well  pursue 
their  selfish  interests,  and  be  utterly  indifferent  to  the 
national  welfare.    But  for  you  it  would  be  dishonor- 


44  DEMOSTHENES. 

able,  even  though  you  had  suffered  wrong,  so  to  punish 
the  wrong-doers  as  to  let  any  of  them  fall  under  the 
power  of  the  barbarian.  Under  these  circumstances 
we  must  be  careful  not  to  engage  in  the  war  on  un- 
equal terms,  and  not  to  allow  him  whom  we  suppose  to 
be  planning  mischief  against  the  Greeks  to  get  the 
credit  of  appearing  their  friend  " 

Although  Athens  is  rich,  he  warns  the  people  thit 
those  riches  will  not  be  forthcoming  on  a  mere  vagie 
rumor  of  hostilities  from  Persia.  When  the  danger 
is  seen  to  be  really  imminent,  then  it  will  be  time  for 
the  State  to  put  a  pressure  on  its  wealthy  citizens. 

"You  iavite  the  Greeks  to  join  you.  But  if  you 
will  not  act  as  they  wish,  how  can  you  expect  they  will 
obey  your  call,  when  some  of  them  have  no  good-will 
towards  you?  Because,  forsooth,  they  will  hear  from 
you  that  Persia  has  designs  on  them?  Pray,  do  you 
imagine  that  they  don't  foresee  it  themselves?  I  am 
sure  they  do;  but  at  present  the  fear  outweighs  the 
enmity  which  some  of  them  bear  towards  you  and 
towards  each  other.  Athens  contains  treasures  equal 
to  the  rest  of  the  Greek  states  put  together.  But  the 
owners  of  wealth  are  so  minded  that  if  all  your  orators 
alarmed  them  with  the  intelligence  that  the  King  was 
coming,  that  he  was  at  hand,  that  the  danger  was  in- 
evitable— if,  besides  the* orators,  a  number  of  persons 
gave  oracular  warning — so  far  from  contributing,  they 
would  not  even  discover  their  wealth  or  acknowledge 
its  possession.  But  if  they  knew  that  what  is  so  ter- 
rible in  report  was  really  begun,  there  is  not  a  man  so 
foolish  who  would  not  be  ready  to  give  and  foremost 
to  contribute.  I  say  that  we  have  money  against  the 
time  of  actual  need,  but  not  before.  And  therefore  I 
advise  you  not  to  search  for  it  now.     Your  right  course 


EARLY  SPEECHES  ON  FOREIGN  POLICY.   46 

is  to  complete  your  other  preparations.  Let  the  rich 
retain  their  riches  for  the  present  (it  cannot  be  in  better 
hands  for  the  state);  and  should  the  crisis  come,  then 
take  it  from  them  in  voluntary  contributions." 

The  speech  is  thus  concluded : 

**  My  advice  is,  do  not  be  over-alarmed  at  the  war; 
neither  be  led  to  commence  it.  As  far  as  I  see,  no  other 
state  of  Greece  has  reason  to  fear  it.  All  the  Greeks 
know  that  so  long  as  they  regarded  Persia  as  their 
common  enemy,  they  were  at  peace  with  one  another, 
and  enjoyed  much  prosperity.  But  since  they  have 
looked  on  the  King  as  a  friend,  and  quareled  about 
disputes  with  each  other,  they  have  suffered  worse 
calamities  than  any  one  could  possibly  imprecate  upon 
them.  Should  we  fear  a  man  whom  both  fortune  and 
heaven  declare  to  be  an  unprofitable  friend  and  a  useful 
enemy?  If  it  were  possible  with  one  heart  and  with 
united  forces  to  attack  him  alone,  such  an  injury  I 
could  not  pronounce  to  be  an  injustice.  But  since  this 
cannot  be,  I  say  we  must  be  cautious,  and  not  afford 
the  King  a  pretence  for  vindicating  the  rights  of  the 
other  Greeks,  Do  not  expose  the  melancholy  condi- 
tion of  Greece  by  convoking  her  people  when  you  can- 
not persuade  them,  and  making  war  when  you  cannot 
carry  it  on.  Only  keep  quiet,  fear  nothing,  and  pre- 
pare yourselves.  My  advice  in  brief  is  this:  Prepare 
yourselves  against  existing  enemies;  and  you  ought 
with  the  same  force  to  be  able  to  resist  the  King  and 
all  others,  if  they  attempt  to  injure  you.  But  never 
begin  a  wrong  in  word  or  deed,  Let  us  look  that  our 
actions,  and  not  our  speeches  on  the  platform,  be 
worthy  of  our  ancestors.  If  you  pursue  this  course, 
you  will  do  service  not  only  to  yourselves,  but  also  to 
^hose  who  give  the  opposite  counsel;  for  you  will  not 


46  DEMOSTHENES, 

be  angry  witb  tliem  afterwards  for  errors  now  com- 
mitted." 

In  this  speech  Demosthenes  may  be  said  to  fore- 
shadow the  general  character  of  his  foreign  policy.  He 
did  not  wish  Athens  to  be  aggressive,  but  simply  to 
hold  her  own  with  a  firm  hand.  This,  he  thought,  she 
might  well  be  persuaded  to  do.  Grand  schemes  of 
Panhellenic  union  against  the  empire  of  Persia,  such 
as  floated  before  the  imagination  of  Isocrates,  and  were 
through  his  influence,  fascinating  the  minds  of  a  certain 
class  of  political  enthusiasts,  he  scouted  as  Quixotic. 
Above  all  things,  he  aimed  at  being  a  practical  states- 
man; and  of  this  the  speech  from  which  we  have  just 
been  quoting,  delivered  by  him  in  the  commencement 
of  his  public  life,  is  decisive  evidence. 

In  the  following  year  he  delivered  a  speech  which 
is  of  considerable  interest  as  showing  his  view  of  Greek 
politics  at  the  time.  It  was  important,  he  thought,  for 
Athens  that  there  should  be,  as  we  say,  a  balance  of 
power  in  the  Greek  world,  and  that  neither  Sparta  nor 
Thebes  should  be  too  strong.  I  have  explained  the 
circumstances  under  Avhich  Megalopolis  was  founded 
in  371  B.C.,  after  the  great  battle  of  Leuctra,  under 
Theban  influence,  as  the  metropolis  of  Arcadia,  and 
specially  as  a  check  on  Sparta.  The  establishment  of 
this  city,  together  with  the  loss  of  the  Messenian  terri- 
tory, which  soon  followed,  was  a  terrible  blow  to  that 
state.  Sparta,  in  fact,  for  the  time,  was  reduced  to  a 
second-rate  power.  She  was  hemmed  in  by  enemies 
on  the  north  and  on  the  west.  It  was  hardly  to  be 
expected  that  she  would  acquiesce  in  such  humiliation. 
And  so,  in  the  year  353  B.C.,  her  king,  Archidamus, 
began  to  plan  a  counter-revolution,  which  should  undo 
the  work  of  Leuctra  by  the  destruction  of  Megalopolis 


EARLY  SPEECHES  ON  FOREIGN  POLICY.  47 

and  the  reconquest  of  Messenia.  It  was,  however, 
necessary  for  him  to  have  some  pretext  which  should 
commend  itself  generally  in  Greek  opinion.  He  was 
meditating  an  entire  iinsettlement  of  the  affairs  of  the 
Peloponnese  in  the  interest  of  Sparta;  and  this,  he 
knew,  would  not  be  allowed  if  it  were  to  be  openly 
avowed.  Accordingly  he  put  forward  the  policy  of  a 
general  restoration  of  ancient  rights  to  the  different 
states.  Athens  would  thus  recover  the  border  town  of 
Oropus,  now  in  the  possession  of  Thebes,  the  loss  of 
which  had  much  vexed  and  distressed  her.  Thus,  it 
was  hoped,  she  might  be  disposed  to  favor  the  Spar- 
tan proposals,  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  anti- 
Theban  party,  then  very  strong,  would  back  up  to  the 
utmost  of  its  power.  The  result  which  such  a  policy, 
would  have  on  Megalopolis,  as  a  barrier  in  Sparta's 
way,  was  kept  in  the  background.  The  new  city  must 
have  inevitably  dwindled  down  into  an  insignificant 
township,  and  the  purpose  with  which  it  had  been 
founded  would  have  been  frustrated. 

Envoys  came  to  Athens  both  from  Sparta  and  from 
Megalopolis.  There  was  a  warm  and  angry  debate. 
The  bitter  hatred  Athenians  had  always  felt  towards 
Thebans,  coupled  with  the  immediate  desire  of  recover 
ing  Oropus,  was  enough  to  recommend  the  Spartan 
proposals.  It  seems  strange  that  the  memory  of  what 
Athens  had  suffered  from  the  hands  of  Sparta  did  not 
at  once  decfde  the  question,  and  open  the  eyes  of  the 
people  to  the  dangers  of  Sparta's  insidious  policy. 
Some  there  were  who  saw  through  it  and  denounced 
it.  Demosthenes  was  among  the  number.  He  was 
with  the  "Opposition;"  and  it  appears  that  on  this 
occasion  he  failed.  He  supported  the  cause  of  Mega- 
lopblia-^tbe  cause,  in  fact,  of  Thebes— argiiing  that  it 


48  DEMOSTHENES. 

would  be  a  grave  political  blunder  to  assist  Sparta  in 
recovering  the  position  which  she  held  in  Greece  pre- 
vious to  the  battle  of  Leuctra.  His  speech  is  subtle 
and  ingenious,  and  must  have  been  convincing  to  those 
who  would  not  let  themselves  be  carried  away  by  an 
unreasoning  antipathy  to  everything  Theban. 

"The  Lacedaemonians, "  he  says,  "are  acting  a 
crafty  part.  They  say  they  cannot  retain  the  grati- 
tude they  feel  for  you  for  helping  them  in  a  time  of 
urgent  need  unless  you  now  allow  them  to  commit  an 
injustice.  However  repugnant  it  may  be  to  the  designs 
of  the  Spartans  that  we  should  adopt  the  Arcadian 
alliance"  (that  is,  the  alliance  of  Megalopolis),  "surely 
their  gratitude  for  having  been  saved  by  us  in  a  crisis 
of  extreme  peril  ought  to  outweigh  their  resentment 
for  being  checked  in  their  aggression  now." 

As  to  the  bait  held  out  by  Sparta  to  Athens  in  the 
prospect  of  the  recovery  of  Oropus,  he  says: 

"My  opinion  is,  first,  that  our  State,  even  without 
sacrificing  any  Arcadian  people  to  the  Lacedaemonians, 
may  recover  Oropus,  both  with  their  aid,  if  they  are 
minded  to  act  justly,  and  that  of  others  who  hold 
Theban  usurpation  to  be  intolerable.  Secondly,  sup- 
posing that  it  were  evident  to  us  that,  unless  we  permit 
the  Lacedaemonians  to  reduce  the  Peloponnese,  we  can- 
not obtain  possession  of  Oropus,  allow  me  to  say,  I 
deem  it  more  expedient  to  let  Oropus  alone  than  to 
abandon  Messenia  and  the  Peloponnese  to  the  Lace- 
daemonians. I  imagine  the  question  between  us  and 
them  would  soon  be  about  other  matters.  .  .  . 

"I  am  sure,  to  judge  from  rational  observation— 
and  I  think  most  Athenians  will  agree  with  me — that 
if  the  Lacedaemonians  take  Megalopolis,  Messenia  will 
be  in  danger;  and  if  they  take  Messenia,  I  predict^ 


EARLY  SPEECHES  ON  FOREIGN  POLICY.  49 

that  you  and  tbe  Thebans  TP-ill  be  allies.  Then  it  is 
much  better  and  more  honorable  for  us  to  receive  the 
Theban  confederacy  as  our  friends  and  resist  Lacedas- 
monian  ambition,  than,  out  of  reluctance  to  save  the 
allies  of  Thebes,  to  ibandon  them  now,  and  have  after- 
wards to  save  Thebes  herself  and  be  in  fear  also  for  ouri 
own  safety.  I  cannot  but  regard  it  as  perilous  to  our 
State  should  the  Lacedaemonians  take  Megalopolis  and 
again  become  strong.  For  I  see  they  have  undertaken 
the  war  not  to  defend  themselves,  but  to  recover  their 
ancient  power.  What  were  their  designs  when  they 
possessed  that  power,  you  perhaps  know  better  than  I, 
and  therefore  may  have  reason  to  be  alarmed." 

This  was  plain  speaking,  and  sound,  statesmanlike 
advice.  It  could  not  have  been  the  interest  of  Athens 
to  let  Sparta  gain  her  old  supremacy,  as  she  was 
certainly  striving  to  do.  It  was  her  interest,  as  Demos- 
thenes says  towards  the  conclusion  of  his  speech,  not  to 
abandon  Megolopolis  and  tbe  Arcadians,  and  to  make 
them  feel  (should  they  survive  the  struggle)  that  they 
had  owed  their  deliverance  not  to  themselves  or  to  any 
other  people  but  the  Athenians.  As  affairs  turned 
out,  the  dangers  he  apprehended  never  came  to  pass. 
He  could  not  persuade  his  countrymen  to  support 
Megalopolis.  They  simply  stood  neutral.  The  Lace- 
dsemonians  waged  war  for  two  years  in  Arcadia,  and 
gained  some  partial  successes,  but  they  could  not  carry 
out  their  designs.  Thebes,  though  she  had  occupation 
for  her  soldiers  in  other  quarters,  contrived  to  send 
an  army  into  the  Peloponnese;  and  after  some  inde- 
cisive engagements,  a  truce  was  concluded,  which  left 
matters  as  they  were.  Megalopolis  and  the  Arcadian 
confederacy  escaped  the  peril  with  which  Sparta  had 
threatened   them.      But  the  result  lo  Athens  and  to 


60  DEMOSTHENES. 

Greece  was  unsatisfactory.  Subsequently,  when  they 
apprehended  a  similar  danger  from  Sparta,  they  did 
not  think  it  worth  their  while  to  ask  help  from  Athens. 
They  did  not  care  to  be  refused  a  second  time,  and  on 
this  occasion  they  applied  to  Philip.  He  was  not  the 
man  to  miss  such  an  opportunity;  and  thus  Mace- 
donian influence  was  brought  to  bear  on  the  affairs  of 
the  Peloponnese.  This  was  the  unfortunate  conse- 
quence of  the  indifference  of  Athens  to  the  progress 
of  Spartan  ambition.  She  gave  the  impression  to  the 
Greek  world  that  she  was  not  in  earnest  in  wishing  to 
maintain  the  liberties  of  the  states  of  the  Peloponnese, 
although  it  had  been  her  constant  profession  to  do  so. 
This  was  the  inference  drawn  from  her  refusal  to  ally 
herself  with  Megalopolis  against  Sparta.  Had  she 
been  guided  by  the  counsels  of  Demosthenes,  she 
would  have  assumed  a  dignified  political  attitude,  and, 
as  events  turned  out,  have  put  a  stumbling-block  in 
the  way  of  her  future  enemy  and  destroyer.  It  is 
true,  indeed,  that  ak  that  time  there  was  no  distinct 
cause  of  apprehension  from  Macedon,  and  there  is  not 
even  any  allusion  to  Philip  in  his  speech  of  Demos- 
thenes. We  may  therefore  conclude  that  as  yet  he 
himself  feared  nothing  in  that  quarter.  Still,  it  is  not 
the  less  to  his  credit  that  he  urged  Athens  to  adopt  a 
policy  which  would  have  won  for  her  the  respect  and 
confidence  of  many  of  the  Greeks,  and  might  have  had 
the  effect  of  excluding  the  intrusions  of  a  most  danger- 
ous foreign  infiuence  into  an  important  part  of  the 
Greek  world. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

PmST  SPEECH  OF  DEMOSTHENES  AGAINST  PHILIP — 
SPEECH  FOR  THE  FREEDOM  OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF 
RHODES. 

The  year  352  b.c.  brought  with  it  the  beginnings  of 
great  events.  In  that  year,  for  the  first  time,  the  King 
of  Macedon  really  showed  that  he  might  possibly  be 
entertaining  designs  fraught  with  peril  to  the  Greek 
world.  He  had  prominently  intervened  in  Greek 
politics.  He  had  taken  a  conspicuous  part  in  the 
Sacred  or  Holy  War  between  the  Thebans  and  Phocians. 
Once,  indeed,  he  had  been  utterly  defeated  by  the 
Phocian  leader,  Onomarchas,  and  hid  been  driven 
back  into  his  kingdom  with  loss  and  disaster,  though 
report  made  him  say  that  "he  did  not  fly,  but  fell 
back  like  the  battering-ram,  to  give  a  more  violent 
shock  another  time."  He  speedily  again  entered  Thes- 
saly  with  a  more  powerful  army;  and  with  the  help  of 
his  allies  in  that  country  and  of  the  admirable  Thes- 
salian  cavalry,  he  won  at  Pagasse  a  decisive  victory 
over  Onomarchus,  wlio  perished  in  the  fiight.  Now 
he  was  completely"  master  of  Thessaly,  a  country  which 
ought  10  have  been  under  Ihe  control  of  a  Greek  state, 
and  in  which,  of  late,  The'oan  in^uence  had  been 
supreme.      Macedon  was  thus  in  effect  the  principal 


52  DEMOSTHENES. 

land  power  to  the  north  of  the  Peloponnese ;  and  her 
king  had  both  displayed  military  genius,  and  had 
shown  that  he  was  in  command  of  an  army  with  which 
it  was  already  a  question  whether  any  single  Greek  state 
could  cope.  The  baitie  just  fought  was  on  a  very  con- 
siderable scale,  and  could  not  have  failed  to  suggest  un- 
pleasant apprehensions  to  the  mind  of  every  thinking 
politician.  Philip  might  very  possibly  follow  up  hia 
success  with  an  instant  invasion  of  northern  Greece. 
He  did  in  fact  advance  on  Thermopylae;  but  Athens  had 
forestalled  him,  and  the  famous  pass  was  guarded  by 
a  force  before  which  he  thought  prude  at  to  retire.  The 
Athenians  exulted  in  the  reflection  that  they  had  once 
again  been  the  deliverers  of  Greece.  But  their  joys 
were  doomed  to  be  of  very  brief  duration. 

For  a  few  months  the  King  of  Macedon  employed 
himself  in  securing  a  firm  hold  on  Thessalay.  Mean- 
while his  cruisers  and  privateers,  of  which  he  had 
contrived  to  raise  a  formidable  number,  infested  the 
northern  islands  and  coasts  of  the  ^gean,  to  the  great 
annoyance  and  injury  of  Athenian  trade.  In  the 
autumn  of  353  B.C.  he  hurried  northwards,  entered 
Thrace,  and  took  advantage  of  its  intestine  feuds,  with 
a  view  to  getting  the  country  under  his  control.  In 
November  news  reached  Athens,  the  serious  import  of 
which  could  not  be  misunderstood.  Philip  was  be- 
sieging Heraeum — a  place  probably  on  the  northern 
coast  of  the  Propontis,  to  the  west  of  Perinthus.  It 
was  contiguous  to  the  Thracian  Chersonese,  occupied, 
as  we  have  seen,  by  Athenian  colonists,  and,  as  it 
appears,  actually  garrisoned  by  an  Athenian  force. 
The  act  was  thus  one  of  almost  open  hostility,  and 
practically  equivalent  to  a  declaration  of  war.  But 
what  made  it  singularly  alarming  was,  that  it  was  a 


FIRST  SPEECH  AGAINST  PHILIP.        53 

most  dangerous  menace  to  the  Athenian  interests  on 
the  north  of  the  ^gean.  It  meant,  in  fact,  peril  to 
the  corn  trade  of  Athens,  and  high  prices  and  possibly 
famine  to  the  citizens.  It  showed,  too,  clearly  enough, 
that  Philip,  if  he  could,  would  rob  the  city  of  its  most 
valuable  outlying  possessions.  Thus  the  eyes  of  the 
people  ought  to  have  baen  thoroughly  opened  to  the 
danger  which  hung  over  them;  but  as  soon  as  they 
knew  that  Philip  was  ill,  and  next  heard  a  report  of 
his  death,  they  fell  back  into  their  love  of  the  easy, 
comfortable  life  at  Athens,  with  its  pleasures  and 
amusements,  and  flattered  themselves  with  the  notion 
that  the  crisis  was  finally  past.  The  peace  party,  with 
Eubulus  at  its  head,  always  strong,  was  now  for  the 
moment  stronger  than  ever;  and  its  best  representative, 
the  really  patriotic  Phocian,  was  too  cynical  to  believe 
in  the  possibility  of  his  countrymen  being  roused  to 
the  degree  of  effort  and  endurance  which  a  serious 
struggle  with  Macedon  would  demand  from  them. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  Philip  had  recovered, 
and  was  as  active  and  aggressive  as  ever,  there  were,  it 
appears,  several  acrimonious  debates  in  the  Assembly, 
with  grievous  complaints  as  to  the  inefficiency  of  the 
generals  and  of  their  troops.  Athens  still  clung  to  her 
maritime  supremacy,  and  it  was  felt  to  be  disgraceful 
that  this  should  be  threatened  by  a  barbarian.  Still, 
her  public  men  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  tell  the 
people  plainly  the  only  way  by  which  such  a  disgrace 
could  be  ended.  It  was  painful  to  speak  to  them  of 
personal  service  on  shipboard,  with  all  its  hardships 
and  risks.  Demosthenes,  in  his  speech  on  the  war 
with  Persia,  had  hinted,  not  obscurely,  at  this  neces- 
sity. He  did  so  far  m«re  clearly  and  persistently  on 
the  occasion  we  have  been  ascribing.     At  the  age  of 


54  DEMOSTHENES. 

about  thirty  he  spoke  the  memorable  harangue  known 
as  the  First  Philippic. 

The  speech  shows  that  he  had  now  quite  made  up 
his  mind  on  the  subject  of  the  foreign  policy  of  Athens. 
A  year  ago  he  had  not,  as  we  may  reasonably  iafer, 
regarded  Macedon  as  a  source  of  real  danger  to  the 
freedom  of  the  Greek  world.  He  was  now  convinced 
that  Philip  had  designs  beyond  the  mere  establishment 
of  a  compact  and  powerful  northern  kingdom.  He 
takes  a  broad  view  of  the  political  situation,  and  speaks 
not  merely  as  a  citizen  of  the  foremost  state  of  Greece, 
but  as  a  Greek  on  behalf  of  Greek  security  and  inde- 
pendence. 

It  was  assuredly  much  to  the  honor  of  Demosthenes 
that,  as  a  young  politician,  he  sounded  a  distinct  note 
of  warning,  which  he  must  have  known  would  have 
jarred  on  the  easy-going  temper  of  his  countrymen. 
Their  affairs,  he  plainly  tells  them,  were  in  a  very  bad 
plight;  but  there  was  hope,  just  because  they  had  not 
as  yet  really  exerted  themselves.  Therefore  there  was 
no  reason  for  despair.  Philip's  power,  indeed,  was 
already  great;  he  had  Thessaly  at  his  feet;  he  had 
defeated  a  Greek  army  under  a  brave  and  experienced 
leader;  he  was  now  threatening  the  Chersonese  and 
the  nothern  coasts  of  the  ^gean,  and  with  his  fleet 
was  harassing  the  commerce  of  Athens ;  still,  he  was 
not  a  more  formidable  foe  than  Sparta  had  been ;  and 
the  fact  that  he  was  formidable  at  all  was  due  to  their 
own  voluntary  supineness,  which,  for  the  sake  of 
Greece  and  for  the  glory  of  Athens,  they  must  shake 
off  once  and  forever.  Otherwise,  even  if  rumor  had 
truly  asserted  Philip's  death,  they  would  soon  raise  up 
against  themselves  another  Philip  equally  terrible. 


FIRST  SPEECH  AGAINST  PHILIP.        55 

"You  must  not  despond,"  he  says  at  the  beginning 
of  his  speech,  "under  your  present  circumstances, 
wretched  as  they  are;  for  that  which  is  worst  in  them 
as  regards  the  past,  is  best  for  the  future.  My  mean- 
ing is  this — your  affairs  are  amiss  because  you  do 
nothing  which  is  required.  If  the  result  were  the  same, 
although  you  performed  your  duties,  there  would  be 
no  hope  of  amendment.  Consider,  further,  what  is 
known  to  you  by  hearsay,  and  what  men  of  experience 
remember.  Not  long  ago,  how  vast  a  power  the  Lace- 
daemonians possessed !  Yet  how  nobly  and  admirably 
did  you  consult  the  dignity  of  Athens,  and  undertook 
the  war  against  them  for  the  rights  of  Greece!  Why 
do  I  mention  this?  To  show  and  convince  you  that 
nothing,  if  you  take  precaution,  is  to  be  feared;  noth- 
ing, if  you  are  negUgent,  goes  as  you  desire.  Take  for 
examples,  the  strength  of  the  Lacedaemonians,  which 
you  overcame  by  minding  your  duty,  and  the  insolent 
ambition  of  this  Philip  now,  which  utterly  confounds 
us  through  our  neglect  of  our  interest.  If  any  of  you 
think  the  man  a  formidable  foe,  looking  at  the  vastness 
of  his  present  power  and  our  loss  of  all  our  strongholds, 
that  is  reasonable  enough ;  only  you  should  reflect  that 
there  was  a  time  when  we  held  Pydna,  and  Potidaea, 
and  Methone,  with  all  the  adjacent  country,  and  that 
many  of  the  nations  now  in  league  with  Philip  were 
independent  and  free,  and  preferred  our  friendship  to 
his.  Had  Philip  then  taken  it  into  his  head  that, 
Athens  was  too  formidable  a  foe  to  fight,  when  she 
had  so  many  fortresses  to  threaten  his  country,  and  he 
was  destitute  of  allies,  nothing  that  he  has  accomplished 
would  he  have  attempted,  and  never  would  he  have 
acquired  so  large  a  dominion.  But  he  saw  clnarly 
enough  that  such  places  are  the  open  prizes  of  war;— 


66  DEM08THENE8. 

that  the  possessions  of  the  absent  belong  to  the  pres- 
ent, those  of  the  careless  to  the  adventurous  who 
shrink  not  from  toil.  Acting  on  that  principle,  he  has 
won  everything,  and  keeps  it  either  by  way  of  con- 
quest or  by  friendly  attachment  and  alliance;  for  all 
men  will  side  with  and  respect  those  whom  they  see 
prepared  and  willing  to  make  proper  exertions.  If 
you  will  adopt  this  principle  now,  though  you  have 
not  hitherto  done  so— and  if  every  man,  when  he  can 
and  ought  to  give  his  service  to  the  State,  be  ready  to 
give  it  without  excuse — if  the  rich  will  contribute,  if 
the  able-bodied  will  enlist, — in  a  word,  plainly,  if  you 
will  become  your  own  masters,  and  cease  each  expect- 
ing to  do  nothing  himself,  while  his  neighbor  does 
everything  for  him, — then  will  you,  with  heaven's 
permission,  recover  your  own,  and  get  back  what  has 
been  frittered  away,  and  chastise  Philip.  Do  not  im- 
agine that  his  empire  is  everlastingly  secured  to  him  as 
to  a  god.  There  are  who  hate  and  fear  and  envy  him, 
even  among  those  that  seem  most  friendly;  aud  all 
feelings  natural  to  other  men  exist,  we  may  assume,  in 
his  confederates.  But  now  they  are  all  cowed,  for  they 
have  no  refuge  because  of  your  tardiness  and  indolence, 
which  I  say  you  must  abandon  forthwith." 

On  the  subject  of  the  preparations  they  ought  to 
make,  Demosthenes  thus  advises  them: 

"First,  we  must  provide  fifty  war-ships,  and  hold 
ourselves  prepared  in  case  of  emergency  to  embark  and 
sail.  There  must,  too,  be  an  equipment  of  transports 
for  half  the  cavalry,  and  sufficient  boats.  This  we 
must  have  in  readiness  against  his  sudden  marches 
from  his  own  country  to  Thermopylae,  the  Chersonese, 
Olynthus,  and  anywhere  he  likes.  For  he  should  be 
made  to  have  the  idea  that  possibly  you  may  rouse 


FIB8T  SPEECH  A  0A1N8T  PHILIP,         57 

yourselves  out  of  this  over-supineness  and  start  off  as 
you  did  to  Euboea,  and  very  lately  to  Thermopylae, 
Such  an  armament,  I  say,  ought  instantly  to  be  agreed 
upon  and  provided. " 

In  the  following  passage,  the  want  of  skill  and 
method  with  which  Athens  was  carrying  on  the  con- 
test is  strikingly  exposed : 

"  You,  Athenians,  with  larger  means  than  any  people, 
have  never  up  to  this  day  made  proper  use  of  any  of 
them,  and  your  war  with  Philip  is  exactly  like  the 
boxing  of  barbarians.  With  them,  the  party  struck 
first  is  always  feeling  for  the  blow;  strike  him  any- 
where else,  there  go  his  hands  again;  ward  or  look 
you  in  the  face  he  cannot  and  will  not.  So  with  you. 
If  you  hear  of  Philip  in  the  Chersonese  or  at  Ther- 
mopylae, you  vote  to  send  a  force  there;  if  you  hear  of 
him  somewhere  else,  you  run,  so  to  say,  after  his  heels 
up  and  down,  and  are,  in  fact,  commanded  by  him. 
No  plan  have  you  devised  for  the  war;  no  circum- 
stance do  you  see  beforehand,  but  only  when  you  learn 
that  something  is  done  or  is  about  to  be  done.  For- 
merly, perhaps,  this  was  allowable ;  now  it  is  come  to 
a  crisis  to  be  borne  no  longer.  It  seems  as  if  some 
god,  in  shame  at  our  proceedings,  had  put  this  activity 
into  Philip.  For  had  he  been  willing  to  remain  quiet 
in  possession  of  his  conquests  and  prizes,  and  attempted 
nothing  further,  some  of  you,  I  think,  would  be  satis- 
fied with  a  state  of  things  which  brands  our  nation 
with  the  shame  of  cowardice  and  of  the  foulest  dis- 
grace. But  by  continually  encroaching  and  grasping 
after  more,  he  may  possibly  rouse  you,  if  you  have  not 
altogether  despaired.  I  marvel,  indeed,  that  not  one 
of  you  notices  with  concern  and  anger  that  the  begin- 


58  DEMOSTHENES. 

ning  of  this  war  was  to  chastise  Philip;  the  end  is  to 
protect  ourselves  against  his  attacks." 

Towards  the  conclusion  of  his  speech,  Demosthenes 
reproaches  the  people  with  their  silly  fondness  for 
gossiping  about  Philip's  reported  movements,  and  bids 
them  remember  that  he  now  is  and  long  has  been  their 
enemy: 

"Some  among  ourselves  go  about  and  say  that 
Philip  is  concerting  with  the  Lacedaemonians  the  de- 
struction of  Thebes  and  the  dissolution  of  free  states; 
some,  that  he  has  sent  envoys  to  the  King;*  others, 
that  he  is  fortifying  cities  in  Illyria.  So  we  wander 
about,  each  inventing  stories.  For  my  part,  I  quite 
believe  that  Philip  is  thoroughly  intoxicated  with  the 
magnitude  of  his  exploits,  and  that  he  has  many  such 
dreams  in  his  imagination.  Still,  most  assuredly  his 
plan  of  action  is  not  such  as  to  Jet  the  greatest  fools 
among  us  know  what  his  intentions  are.  For  the 
greatest  fools  are  these  newsmongers.  Let  us  dismiss 
such  talk,  and  remember  only  that  Philip  is  an  enemy 
who  robs  us  of  our  own,  and  has  long  insulted  us; 
that  whenever  we  have  expected  aid  from  any  quarter, 
it  has  been  found  hostile;  and  that  the  future  depends 
on  ourselves;  and,  unless  we  are  willing  to  fight  him 
there,  we  shall  perhaps  be  compelled  to  fight  here. 
This  let  us  remember,  and  then  we  shall  have  deter- 
mined wisely,"  and  have  done  with  idle  conjectures. 
You  need  not  pry  into  the  future,  but  assure  your- 
selves that  it  will  be  disastrous,  unless  you  give  your 
mind  to  your  duty,  and  are  willing  to  act  as  becomes 
you." 

*  The  king  of  Persia. 


FIRHT  SPEECH  AGAINSl  PHILIP.        69 

The  only  result  of  this  speech  was,  that  a  paltry 
four  or  five  ships  were  sent  to  the  Chersonese  under  a 
mercenary  and  somewhat  disreputable  general,  Chari- 
dcmus.  The  fact  was,  that  there  was  a  numerous  party 
at  Athens  who  never  could  be  persuaded  that  Philip 
would  some  day  be  a  really  dangerous  enemy.  Persia 
was  the  power  of  which  they  were  always  thinking  as 
the  great  source  of  peril  to  Greece.  There  were  still 
rumors  flying  about  as  to  the  gigantic  preparations 
which  the  King  was  said  to  be  making  against  them  to 
reveuge  the  defeats  of  Marathon  and  Salamis.  Possibly 
such  reports  were  stimulated  by  Philip  himself.  Next 
there  were  those  who  were,  in  fact,  Philip's  paid  agents, 
now,  no  doubt,  a  considerable  class  in  several  Greek 
states.  And,  last  of  all,  there  was  incredulity  and 
apathy  among  the  Athenians  themselves.  All  these 
adverse  influences  were  too  strong  for  Demosthenes, 
and  his  appeal  to  the  patriotism  of  his  countrymen 
was  made  in  vain. 

In  the  speech  we  have  boea  describing,  Demosthenes 
dwelt  on  the  duty  of  Athens  to  put  herself  forward  as 
the  champion  of  Greece  and  of  its  free  states.  In  a 
speech  delivered  some  months  or  perhaps  a  year  after- 
wards, be  reminds  her  that  she  ought  to  be  the  cham- 
pion of  democracy  and  of  popular  government.  From 
this  point  of  view,  the  oration  entitled  "On  the 
freedom  of  the  people  of  Rhodes"  has  much  interest. 
We  rather  gather,  from  the  general  tone  of  the  speech, 
that  Philip's  restlessness  had  ceased  for  a  time,  or  at 
all  events  that  he  had  something  else  to  do  than  to 
threaten  the  possessions  and  the  commerce  of  Athens. 
It  was  made  on  the  occasion  of  a  deputation  from  the 
democratic  party  in  Rhodes,  who  mshed  the  island  to 
pass  again  under  Athenian  control. 


60  DEMOSTHENES. 

Rhodes  had  more  than  once  been  in  alliance  with 
Athens — a  connection  which  practically  implied  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  subjection  and  dependence.  With  the 
close  of  the  Peloponnesian  War  and  the  triumph  of 
Sparta,  it  was  put  under  an  oligarchy,  which  meant 
Spartan  control.  About  the  year  396  B.C.  the  Athenian 
general  Conon,  who  had  a  powerful  fleet  in  the  ^gean, 
again  forced  the  Rhodians  to  become  the  allies  of 
Athens.  Four  years  afterwards  a  Spartan  fleet  appeared, 
and  this  was  the  signal  for  another  revolution  in  the 
government.  There  was,  it  seems,  one  of  those  horrible 
incidents  with  which  Greek  history  is  so  often  dis- 
figured— a  massacre  of  the  democratic  leaders  and  of 
the  adherents  of  Athens.  But  the  oligarchy  now  im- 
posed on  the  island  did  not  last  long.  The  Spartan 
fleet  was  defeated,  and  Rhodes  and  most  of  the  islands 
of  the  ^gean  returned  to  the  Athenian  alliance.  We 
may  take  for  granted  that  democracy  was  re-established. 
Then  came,  in  358  b.c,  the  Social  War,  the  war  between 
Athens  and  her  allies,  which  broke  up  the  second 
Athenian  empire.  Of  this,  Rhodes  was  the  origin. 
Chares,  the  Athenian  general,  of  whom  we  have 
already  had  occasion  to  speak,  provoked  and  disgusted 
the  Rhodians  by  plunder  and  extortion.  Cos  and 
Chios  had  similar  grievances;  and  the  three  islands 
threw  off  their  connection  with  Athens,  and  began  the 
Social  War — Rhodes  being  the  prime  mover.  They 
were  helped  by  Mausolus,  King  of  Caria  and  a  vassal 
prince  of  the  Persian  empire.  He  was  a  man  of  con- 
siderable ambition,  and  his  idea  was  to  annex^Rhodes, 
which  was  adjacent  to  his  own  territories.  It  was  first 
necessary  to  detach  it  from  the  Athenian  alliance;  and 
Mausolus  contrived,  by  intrigues  with  the  oligarchical 
party  in  the  island,  to  introduce  a  Carian  garrison ;  and 


FIR^T  SFEKVH  AGAINST  PHILIP.         61 

once  more  the  government  was  revolutionized.  The 
people  and  their  leaders  found  themselves  in  a  hopeless 
plight,  now  that  they  had  renounced  their  connection 
with  Athens,  while  the  oligarchy  was  supported  by 
Persian  influence  through  Mausolus.  When  th:it 
king  died  and  his  queen  Artemisia  succeeded,  the 
government  became  so  intolerably  oppressive  that  the 
popular  party  ventured  to  send  an  embassy  to  Athens, 
and  humbly  to  implore  relief.  It  was  hardly  to  be 
expected  that  the  embassy  would  be  well  received. 
The  Athenians  felt  that  Rhodes  had  inflicted  a  grievous 
injury  on  them  by  plunging  them  in  a  disastrous  war, 
which  had  ended  in  dissolving  their  confederacy.  They 
were  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  the  present  petition. 
Nevertheless  it  was  supported  by  Demosthenes. 

It  is  a  hard  matter  to  soothe  the  temper  of  people 
when  they  feel,  as  the  Athenians  now  did,  that  they 
have  suffered  much  from  ingratitude.  Popular  as- 
semblies, under  such  circumstances,  are  apt  to  be 
peculiarly  angry  and  excited.  All  that  Demosthenes 
could  do  was  to  appeal  to  the  better  and  more  generous 
sentiments  of  his  countrymen.  They  ought  not,  he 
argued,  to  brood  over  the  wrongs  done  to  them  by 
these  insignificant  islanders,  but  to  think  only  of  what 
was  due  to  Athens  and  to  Greece.  It  was  alike  thcii* 
duty  and  interest  to  vindicate  the  freedom  of  an  op- 
pressed Greek  people,  and  to  stand  by  the  policy  of 
supporting  popular  and  democratic  government  against 
oligarchs  and  tyrants.  Unless  they  resolved  to  act 
thus,  the  political  constitution  of  Athens  would  itself 
be  imperiled.  If  all  democracies  were  put  down,  their 
own  would  fall  at  last.  Demosthenes,  we  see,  was 
heartily  in  sympathy  with  democracy,  and  regarded  it 
as  the  special  glory  of  Athens  to  be  its  champion  and 


62  DEMOSTHENES. 

upholder.  If  at  times  he  felt  its  weak  side,  and  its 
tendency  to  vacillation  and  irresolution,  still  he  never 
seems  to  have  doubted  that  it  was  on  the  whole  the 
best  and  most  manly  type  of  government. 

Such  were  his  reasons  for  counselling  the  assembly 
to  listen  favorably  to  the  request  for  aid  from  the 
Rhodians.  In  the  following  passage  these  views  are 
clearly  expressed : 

"  Observe,  men  of  Athens,  that  you  have  waged 
many  wars  both  against  democracies  and  against 
oligarchies.  This  you  know  without  my  telling;  but 
for  what  causes  you  have  been  at  war  with  either, 
perhaps  not  one  of  you  considers.  What  are  the 
causes?  Against  democratical  states  your  wars  have 
been  either  for  private  grievances,  when  you  could  not 
make  public  satisfaction,  or  for  territory  or  bound- 
aries, or  a  point  of  honor,  or  for  the  leadership  of 
Greece.  Against  oligarchies  you  fought,  not  for  such 
things,  but  for  your  constitution  and  for  freedom. 
Therefore  I  would  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  think  it 
better  that  all  the  Greeks  should  be  your  enemies  with 
a  popular  government  than  your  friends  under  an  oli- 
garchical. For  with  free  men  I  consider  you  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  making  peace  when  you  chose; 
but  with  people  under  an  oligarchy,  even  friendship  I 
hold  to  be  insecure.  It  is  impossible  that  the  few  can 
be  attached  io  the  many,  the  seekers  of  power  to  the 
lovers  of  constitutional  equality.  I  marvel  none  of 
you  consider  that,  when  the  Rhodians  and  nearly  all 
peoble  are  drawn  into  this  slavery,  our  constitution 
must  be  in  the  same  peril.  It  all  other  governments 
are  oligarchical,  it  is  impossible  that  they  will  let  your 
democracy  alone.  They  know  too  well  that  no  other 
people  wlil  bring  things  back  to   freedom;   therefore 


SPEECH  FOR  THE  FREEBO^SI  OF  RHODES.  6a 

they  will  wish  to  destroy  a  government  from  which 
they  apprehend  mischief  to  themselves.  Ordinary 
wrong-doers  you  may  regard  as  enemies  to  the  suffer- 
ers; while  they  who  subvert  constitutions  and  transform 
them  into  oligarchies  must  be  looked  upon  as  the  com- 
mon enemies  of  all  lovers  of  freedom." 

In  the  opinion  of  Demosthenes  it  thus  appears 
that  oligarchy  was  in  fact  slavery,  and  wholly  alien 
to  the  Greek  genius.  The  memory  of  the  Athens  of 
Pericles  was  deeply  impressed  on  his  mind,  But 
he  felt  he  was  now  addressing  a  people  singularly 
prone  to  be  misled.  He  hints  plainly  in  this  spnech 
at  the  existence  of  an  unpatriotic  faction  in  the 
State. 

"It  is  difficult  for  you,"  he  [says,  *'to  adopt  right 
measures.  All  other  men  have  one  battle  to  fight — 
namely,  against  their  open  and  avowed  enemies.  You 
have  a  double  contest — that  which  the  rest  have,  and 
also  a  prior  and  a  more  arduous  one.  You  must  in 
counsel  overcome  a  faction  which  acts  among  you  in 
systematic  opposition  to  the  State.  Men  who  desert 
the  politics  handed  down  to  them  by  their  ancestors, 
and  support  oligarchical  measures,  should  be  degraded 
and  deprived  of  constitutional  privileges,  and  disquali- 
fied from  being  your  political  advisers." 

Again  Demosthenes  failed.  The  bitterness  of  Athe- 
nian feeling  towards  the  ungrateful  islanders  made  the 
people  blind  to  higher  considerations,  and  Rhodes  re- 
mained in  the  hands  of  an  oligarchy.  It  was  still 
subject  to  Caria,  and  was  thus  really  a  Persian  de 
pendency. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

PHILIP  AND  OLYNTHUS — SPEECHES  OP  DEMOSTHENES  ON 
BEHALF  OF  THE  OLYNTHIANS. 

When  Demosthenes,  some  time  ia  the  year  353  b.c, 
made  his  first  speech  against  Philip,  there  were  good 
grounds  for  an  uneasy  feeling  throughout  the  Greek 
world  as  to  the  king's  possible  movements  and  designs. 
He  had  already  raised  Macedon  to  a  position  it  had 
never  before  held.  It  had  become  a  distinct  power  in 
the  politics  of  Greece.  For  a  while,  however,  the 
usually  active  Philip  seemed  to  be  really  resting  from 
his  labors,  and  next  to  nothing  was  heard  of  him. 
Demosthenes  does  not  so  much  as  allude  to  him  in  his 
speech  '  *  for  the  freedom  of  the  people  of  Rhodes. "  We 
may  fairly  infer  from  his  silence  that  anything  like 
serious  apprehensions  at  Athens  of  peril  from  "  the 
barbarian,"  as  Philip  was  called,  had  died  away.  The 
pence  party,  always  strong,  and  able  to  make  out  a 
plausible  case  for  itself,  would  thus  be  strengthened; 
and  it  would  not  be  easy,  even  in  the  face  of  manifest 
danger,  thoroughly  to  rouse  the  Ath-jnians  to  a  sense  of 
the  duty  which  they  owed  both  to  themselves  and  to 
Greece. 

Philip  was  by  this  time  a  powerful  prince;  but  still 
he  was  as   yet  barely  a  match  for   Athens,  had    sho 

04 


PHILIP  AND  OLYNTHUS.  65 

chosen  to  put  forth  her  full  strength.    He  had  an 
efficient  army  and  a  good  revenue,  and  he  also  had 
the  luck  to  have  other  collateral  advantages.     He  had 
tools  and  agents  in  several  Greek  states;  and  he  had 
practically  on  his  side  at  Athens  very  many  of  the  rich 
and  well-to-do  citizens,  who  shrank  from  the  idea  of 
a  war  which  required  personal  service  and  exertion. 
It  was  perfectly  clear  that  a  contest  with  him  would 
have  been  a  serious  undertaking.     At  the  same  time, 
his  position,  though  strong,  was  not  altogether  secure. 
He  had,  as  w^e  have  seen,  possessed  himself  of  some  of 
the  coast  towns,  and  he  had  a  fleet  in  the  ^gean. 
Athens  should  never  have  allowed  him  to  advance  to 
this  point.      She  had  flung  away  opportunities;  but 
even  now  it  was  not  too  late  to  check  him  with  the 
help  of  a  seasonable  alliance.     As  yet  he  had  no  hold 
on  the  district  known  as  Chalcidice,  which   juts  out 
with  its  three  peninsulas  into  the  north-west  of  the 
^gean.     It  was  a  valuable  and  commanding  strip  of 
country;    and    it    contained    thirty  Greek  towns,   of 
which    the    chief    was    the    city    Olynthus,    at    the 
head  of  the  Toronaeau  gulf.     Some  of  these  towns 
regarded  themselves    as    dependencies    of    Olynthus, 
and    formed    what   was    known     as    the    Olynthian 
confederacy.      There  was    a  time  when  even  Pella, 
now  the  capital  of  Macedonia,  was  included  in  their 
number.     Olynthus,  indeed,  had  been  quite  the  most 
powerful  city  in  the  north  of  the  ^gean,  and  far  too 
proud  to  submit  to  the  supremacy  of  either  Sparta  or 
Athens.      Sparta  with  much  difficulty  forced  it,    in 
879  B.C.,   into  the  Lacedasmonian   confederacy;  and 
Athens,  about  ten  years  later,  very  much  weakened  its 
mfluence  by  taking  from  it  some  of  its  territory  and 
>f  its  subject- towns.     Still,  however,  it  was  prosperous 
8 


66  DEMOSTHENES. 

and  flourishing;  and  it  could,  at  an  extremity,  bring 
into  the  field  a  considerable  military  force,  especially 
of  cavalry.  Although  it  owed  Athens  a  grudge,  it  had, 
as  we  have  seen,  proposed  alliance  when  it  saw  its 
neighbor,  Amphipolis,  pass  into  the  hands  of  Philip. 
Athens  declined  the  offer,  and  Philip  was  clever  enough 
temporarily  to  conciliate  the  good  will  of  the  Olyn- 
thians  by  a  trifling  concession  of  territoiy, — intending, 
no  doubt,  at  the  first  convenient  moment,  to  pick  a  quar- 
rel with  them  and  annex  the  whole  district.  It  must 
have  been  easy  for  him,  in  the  case  of  a  city  immedi- 
ately in  his  own  neighborhood,  to  have  his  partisans 
among  the  citizens;  and  it  was  to  this  that  he  was  in- 
debted for  his  ultimate  success.  The  towns,  too,  which 
were  connected  with  Olynthus  by  the  loose  tie  of  feder- 
ation, were  no  doubt  singularly  open  to  his  intrigues. 
Still,  there  was  the  feeling  that  he  might  become  a 
dangerous  aggressor;  and  accordingly  Olynthus  decided 
on  a  change  of  policy,  and,  in  353  B.C.,  withdrew  itself 
from  the  Macedonian  alliance.  The  next  step  was  to 
conclude  peace  with  Athens,  and  even  to  show  a  wish 
for  a  yet  closer  union  with  that  state.  Athens,  too, 
now  saw  the  advantage  of  such  a  union,  and,  indeed, 
actually  made  overtures  to  that  effect;  but  Olynthus 
was  not  quite  prepared  to  commit  itself  definitely 
to  an  Athenian  alliance,  which  it  well  knew  would 
be  equivalent  to  a  declaration  of  hostility  against 
Philip. 

Before  long,  however, — in  the  year  b.c.  350,  as  it 
seems, — Philip  left  the  Olynthians  no  alternative  but 
that  of  seeking  powerful  support.  He  made  them  feel 
that  they  were  in  imminent  danger  by  a  sudden  and 
unprovoked  attack  on  one  of  those  cities  of  Chalcidice 
which  would  naturally  look  to  Olynthus  for  symoathy 


PHILIP  AND  OLYNTHV 8.  67 

and  protection.  Their  eyes  were  now  completely 
opened,  and  they  instantly  sent  off  an  embassy  to 
Athens.  Philip,  indeed,  tried  to  persuade  them  by 
envoys  that  he  had  no  intention  of  making  war  on 
them;  but  he  could  not  blind  them.  They  felt  sure 
that  they  might  count  on  a  favorable  reception  for 
their  envoys  at  Athens,  and  on  the  prospect  of  assist- 
ance. Nor  were  they  disappointed.  It  was  impossible 
for  the  Athenians  to  neglect  such  an  opportunity. 
They  had  themselves  lately  propo::ed  such  an  alliance, 
and  now  it  was  offered  them.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
take as  to  the  critical  nature  of  the  situaiion.  Philip 
had  attacked  and  taken  a  Greek  city,  and  it  was  hardly 
possible  to  doubt  that  he  was  feeling  his  way  to  the 
conquest  and  annexation  of  the  entire  peninsula  of 
Chalcidice,  with  its  thirty  towns.  Were  he  to  be  suc- 
cessful, it  was  clear  that  his  power  would  be  immensely 
increased.  Equally  clear  was  it  that  Olynthus,  if  well 
supported,  .might  effectually  stop  his  further  progress. 
Indeed,  so  sanguine  were  the  Athenians,  that  the  gen- 
eral talk  now  was  about  punishing  Philip  for  his  per- 
fidy. Only  one  statesman  and  orator  of  any  note, 
Demades,  who  was  rarely  to  be  found  on  the  patriotic 
side,  and  was  subsequently  in  all  probability  a  mere 
creature  of  Philip's,  spoke  against  the  proposed  alli- 
ance. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  Demosthenes,  in  the 
latter  half  probably  of  the  year  350  b.c,  delivered 
three  memorable  speeches,  commonly  known  as  the 
"  Olynthiacs."  He  must  have  felt  that  the  convictions 
of  the  people  were  with  him ;  and  yet  at  the  same  time 
he  lets  us  see,  by  his  general  tone,  that  he  almost  de- 
spaired of  being  able  to  stir  them  to  decisive  action. 
All  that  they  could  be  persuaded  to  do  was  to  send 


68  DEMOSTKENES, 

thirty  galleys  and  2,000  mercenaries.  This  poor  little 
force  could  not  stop  Philip  from  continuing  his 
attacks  on  the  Greek  towns  of  Chalcidice.  He  had 
not  yet  entered  Olynthian  territory,  or  even  declared 
war  against  the  city;  but  Olynthus  was  sufficiently 
alarmed  to  send  a  second  embassy  to  Athens,  begging 
for  more  effectual  help,  A  large  force  was  now  de- 
spatched; but  it  consisted  of  mercenaries,  and,  unfor- 
tunately for  Athens,  it  was  under  the  command  of  a 
man  who,  though  he  had  some  military  talent,  was  so 
disreputable  in  his  life  that  he  utterly  disgusted  the 
Olynthians. 

In  the  speech  which  was  probably  first  delivered, 
Demosthenes  seeks  to  encourage  his  countrymen  to 
take  a  hopeful  view  of  affairs  by  pointing  out  to  them 
how  it  really  was  that  Philip  had  risen  to  power,  and 
how  numerous  were  the  elements  of  weakness  in  his 
kingdom  and  government. 

"He  has  risen  by  conciliating  and  cajoling  the  sim- 
plicity of  every  people  which  knew  him  not.  "When 
one  has  grown  strong,  as  he  has,  by  rapacity  and 
artifice,  on  the  first  pretext,  the  slightest  reason,  all 
is  overturned  and  broken  up.  If  you  will  per- 
form your  duties  properly,  not  only  will  it  appear 
that  Philip's  alliances  are  weak  and  precarious,  but 
the  poor  state  of  his  native  empire  and  power  will  be 
revealed.  To  speak  roundly,  the  Macedonian  power 
is  very  w^ell  as  a  help,  as  it  was  for  you  in  the  time  of 
Timotheus  against  the  Olynthians.  For  them,  too, 
against  Potida3a,  it  was  an  imporlamt  alliance.  Lately, 
as  you  know,  it  aided  the  Thessalians  in  their  broils 
and  troubles  against  the  regnant  house;  and  indeed  the 
accession  of  any  power,  however  small,  is  undoubtedly 
useful.     But  of  itself  Macedon  is  feeble,  and  has  num- 


PHILIP  AND  OLYNTHU&  69 

berless  deficiencies.  The  very  operations  which  seem 
to  constitute  Philip's  greatness — his  wars  and  his  ex- 
peditions— have  made  it  more  insecure  than  it  was 
originall3^  Do  not  imagine  that  Philip  and  his  subjects 
have  the  same  likings.  He  craves  glory — makes  that 
his  passion;  is  ready  for  any  consequence  of  adventure 
and  peril — preferring,  as  he  does,  to  a  life  of  saf sty,  the 
honor  of  achieving  what  no  Macedonian  king  ever 
did  before.  They  have  no  share  in  the  glorious  result: 
ever  harassed  by  these  excursions,  they  suffer  and  toil 
without  ceasing;  they  have  no  leisure  for  their  employ- 
ments or  private  affairs,  and  cannot  so  much  as  dispose 
of  their  hard  earnings,  the  markets  of  the  country 
being  closed  on  account  of  the  war.  We  may  easily 
infer  from  all  this  what  is  the  general  Macedonian  feel- 
ing towards  Philip.  His  mercenaries  and  guards,  in- 
deed, have  the  reputation  of  admirable  and  well-trained 
soldiers;  but,  as  I  heard  from  one  who  h:id  been  born 
in  the  country,  they  are  no  better  than  others.  If  some 
of  them  are  experienced  in  battles  and  campaigns, 
Philip  is  jealous  of  such  men,  and  drives  them  away — 
so  my  informant  tells  me — wishing  to  keep  the  glory  of 
all  action  to  himself.  Or  again,  if  a  man  is  generally 
good  and  virtuous,  unable  to  bear  Philip's  daily  intem- 
perance, drunkenness,  and  indecency,  he  is  pushed 
aside  and  accounted  as  nobody.  The  rest  about  him 
are  brigands  and  parasites,  and  men  of  that  character 
who  will  get  drunk  and  perform  dances  which  I  scruple 
to  name  before  you.  My  information  is  undoubtedly 
true;  for  persons  whom  all  scouted  here  as  worse  rascals 
than  mountebanks, — Callias,  the  town-slave,  and  the 
lilie  of  him — antic-jesters  and  composers  of  ribald  song^ 
to  lampoon  their  companions, — such  persons  Phi'ip  ca- 
resses and  keeps  about  liim.     Small  matters  these  may 


70  DEMOSTIIEyLS. 

be  thought,  but  to  the  wise  they  are  strong  indications 
of  his  character  and  wrong-hcadedness.  Success  per- 
haps throv/s  a  shade  over  them  now;  prosperity  is  a 
famous  hider  of  such  blemishes;  but  on  any  miscarriage 
they  will  be  fully  exposed." 

Though  in  ths  above  passage  Demosthenes  speaks 
contemptuously  of  Philip,  describing  him  as  little  better 
than  a  savage  and  barbarian,  he  warns  his  hearers  that 
if  they  let  Olynthus  fall  into  his  hands,  he  will  soon 
carry  the  war  into  Attica  itself.  The  third  and  last 
of  his  three  speeches  was  delivered  when  the  Olyn- 
thians  entreated  Athens  to  send  out  a  force  of  her  own 
citizens,  instead  of  mercenaries  commanded  by  men  of 
the  type  of  the  officer  whose  misconduct,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  given  them  so  much  offence.  Of  all  the 
political  orations  of  Demosthenes,  this  is  perhaps  the 
most  stirring  and  impressive.  It  is,  in  the  opinion  of 
Mr,  Grote,  one  of  the  most  splendid  harangues  ever 
spoken.  It  seems  that  people  at  Athens  still  talked 
about  punishing  Philip;  and  there  were  orators,  no 
doubt,  who  flattered  them  into  the  notion  that  they 
could  do  so  whenever  they  chose.  "Such  talk,"  says 
Demosthenes,  "  is  founded  on  a  false  basi^.  The  facts 
of  the  case  teach  us  a  different  lesson.  They  bid  us 
look  well  to  our  own  security,  that  we  be  not  ourselves 
the  sufferers,  and  that  we  preserve  our  allies.  There 
was,  indeed,  a  time — and  that,  too,  within  ^y  own 
remembrance — when  we  might  have  held  our  own,  and 
punished  Philip  besides;  but  now  our  first  care  must  bj 
to  preserve  our  own  allies."  In  this  speech  he  ventures 
on  a  bold  proposal,  which  would  be  sure  to  provoke 
bitter  opposition  from  the  peace  party  of  Eubulus. 
"Repeal  such  of  the  existing  laws  as  are  injurious  at 
the  present  crisis— I  mean  those  which  regard  the  public 


PHILIP  AND  OLTyTIIVS.  U 

entertainments  fund.  I  speak  this  out  plainiy.  The 
same  men  who  propose  such  a  law  ought  also  to  take 
upon  them  to  propose  its  repeal."  In  speaking  thus, 
Demosthenes  knew  that  he  was  fighting  against  a  most 
powerful  Athenian  sentiment.  It  would  cost  them  a 
painful  struggle  to  sacrifice  the  fund  in  question  to  the 
exigencies  of  a  war  which  also  demanded  personal 
service.  They  could  hardly  become  like  the  men  who 
won  Marathon  and  Salamis.  There  was  the  broadest 
contrast  between  them,  as  Demosthenes  elaborately 
points  out  in  the  following  passage : 

"Mark,  Athenians,  what  a  summary  contrast  may  be 
drawn  between  the  doings  in  our  olden  time  and  in  yours. 
It  is  a  tale  brief  and  familiar  to  all.  Our  forefathers 
for  forty-five  years  took  the  leadership  of  Greece  by 
general  consent,  and  brought  as  much  as  ten  thousand 
talents  into  the  citadel;  and  the  King  of  Macedonia 
was  submissive  to  them,  as  a  barbarian  should  be  to 
Greeks.  Many  glorious  trophies  they  erected  for 
victories  won  by  their  own  fighting  on  land  and  sea, 
and  they  are  the  sole  people  in  tbe  world  who  have 
bequeathed  a  renown  which  envy  cannot  hurt.  Such 
were  their  merits  in  the  affairs  of  Greece;  now  see 
what  they  were  at  home,  both  as  citizens  and  men. 
Their  public  works  are  edifices  and  ornaments  of  such 
beauty  and  grandeur  in  temples  and  their  consecrated 
furniture,  that  posterity  has  not  the  power  to  surpass 
them.j.  In  private  they  were  so  modest,  and  so  attached 
to  the  principles  of  our  constitution,  that  *  whoever 
knows  the  style  of  house  which  Aristides  had  or  Mil- 
tiades,  and  the  illustrious  of  that  day,  perceives  it  to 
be  no  grander  than  those  of  their  neighbors.  Their 
politics  were  not  for  money-making;  each  felt  it  his 
duty   to   exalt   the  commonwealth.      By  a    conduct 


72  DEMOSTHENES. 

honorable  among  the  Greeks,  piou$  to  the  gods,  brother- 
like among  themselves,  they  justly  attained  a  high 
prosperity. 

"  So  fared  matters  with  them  under  the  statesmen  I 
have  named.  How  fare  they  with  you  under  the 
worthies  of  our  time?  Is  there  any  likeness  or  resem- 
blance? I  pass  over  other  topics  on  wliich  I  could 
expatiate.  But  observe.  In  the  utter  absence  of  com- 
petitors (Lacedaemonians  depressed,  Thebans  employed, 
none  of  the  rest  capable  of  disputing  the  supremacy 
with  us),  when  we  might  hold  our  own  securely  and 
arbitrate  the  claims  of  others,  we  have  been  deprived 
of  our  rightful  territory,  and  spent  above  1,500  talents 
to  no  purpose.  The  allies  whom  we  gained  in  war  we 
have  lost  in  peace,  and  we  have  trained  up  against 
ourselves  an  enemy  thus  formidable.  For  by  whose 
contrivance  but  our  own  has  Philip  grown  strong? 
This  looks  bad,  you  will  say,  but  things  at  home  are 
better.  What  proof  is  there  of  this?  The  parapets 
that  are  whitewashed,  the  roads  that  are  repaired,  the 
fountains,  and  such  trumpery  things?  Look  at  the 
men  of  whose  statemanship  these  are  the  fruits.  They 
have  risen  from  beggary  to  opulence,  from  obscurity  to 
honor.  Some  have  made  their  private  homes  more 
splendid  than  the  public  buildings,  and  as  the  State  has 
declined,  their  fortunes  have  been  exalted." 

At  last  Athens  roused  herself  to  a  real  effort,  and 
sent  to  the  relief  of  her  ally  a  force  of  more  than  2,000 
native-.A.thenian  citizens.  Olynthus  might  yet  have 
been  saved  had  the  Olynthians  been  on  their  guard 
against  traitors  within,  and  the  history  of  Greece,  per- 
haps of  the  world,  might  have  been  different.  Philip, 
meanwhile  was  on  the  frontier  of  its  territory,  after 
having  captured  most  of  the  towns  in  the  peninsula. 


PHILIP  AND  OLYNTHUS.  78 

At  the  siege  of  one  of  them,  an  arrow  from  an  Olynthian 
archer  deprived  liim  of  an  eye.  But  early  in  the  year 
348  B.C.  he  attacked  Olynthus  itself,  after  a  sudden 
declaration  of  war.  The  Olynthians,  he  said,  must 
quit  their  city,  or  he  must  quit  Macedonia.  But  he 
did  not  overcome  them  by  fair  fighting.  They  were 
betrayed  by  a  party  among  their  fellow-citizens.  It 
was  by  bribery,  as  Horace  says,*  that  "the  man  of 
Macedon  '  opoued  the  gates  of  Olynthus  as  of  other 
cities.  It  was  to  be  expected  that  he  would  show  no 
mercy.  The  fair  cily  was  razed  to  the  ground,  and 
its  population,  with  all  the  women  and  children,  sold 
into  slavery. 

This  awful  calamity  sent  a  shudder  through  the 
Greek  world.  The  like  of  it  had  never  been  seen  since 
the  great  Persian  invasion  of  Xerex.  As  many  as 
thirty -two  free  Greek  cities  had  utterly  perished  in  a 
period  of  less  than  two  years  at  the  hands  of  a  bar- 
barian. Divided  as  the  Greeks  were  among  themselves, 
they  would  have  all  heartily  responded  to  the  sentiment 
of  Demosthenes  that  "  a  barbarian  should  be  submissive 
to  Greeks."  It  must  hive  shocked  and  shamed  them  to 
see  with  their  own  eyes  troops  of  poor  enslaved  creat- 
ures, of  both  sexes  and  of  Greek  blood,  passing  through 
the  streets  of  their  cities.  And  all  this  was  the  work  of 
a  Macedonian,  a  man  of  inferior  race,  whom  Greeks  had 
thought  it  almost  a  condescension  to  notice  and  patron- 
ize. How  could  they  expect  that  he  would  much  longer 
stay  his  hand  from  the  destruction  of  the  Greek  cities 
on  the  Hellespont  and  the  Propontis,  and  from  the 
conquest  of  th3  rich  corn-producing  Chersonese?  How 
could  they  rest  in  peace  till  they  saw  their  way  to  an 

♦Odes,  iiu  16,  13 


74  DEMOSTHENES. 

alliance  of  all  the  states  of  Greece  against  him?  It  is 
natural  for  us  to  reason  thus.  But  even  the  proximity 
of  manifest  danger  will  not  always  banish  mutual 
jealousy  and  distrust.  Nor  is  it  in  general  easy  to  per- 
suade people  that  a  power  they  have  been  accustomed 
to  disregard  and  despise,  though  its  progress  may 
seem  at  times  alarming,  can  ever  become  seriously 
formidable  to  thems3lves.  So  it  appears  to  have  been 
with  the  Greeks.  After  the  fall  of  Olynthus  and  its 
confederate  cities,  they  still  clung  to  their  false  con- 
fidence 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DEMOSTHENES  AND  MEIDIAS. 

An  incident  about  this  time  in  the  life  of  Demosthenes, 
which  gave  occasion  to  one  of  his  well-known  speeches, 
illustrates  rather  strikingly  some  of  the  less  agreeable 
phases  of  Athenian  society.  There  was,  of  course,  refine- 
ment and  polish  of  a  high  degree,  and,  on  the  whole, 
the  tone  and  temper  of  the  citizens  seem  to  have  been 
humane  and  generous.  But  still,  even  at  Athens,  the 
scandal  4  and  breaches  of  good  taste  and  manners,  which 
one  would  fear  are  all  but  inseparable  from  democracy, 
now  and  then  made  their  appearance.  Political  rancor 
and  party  violence  reached  an  outrageous  length,  and 
under  their  shelter  the  grossest  acts  of  wrong  were  from 
time  to  time  committed  with  impunity.  A  rich  man, 
if  he  chose,  might  have  plenty  of  influence  in  the  State; 
and  along  with  this  he  would  have  at  his  command 
many  opportunities  of  injuring  and  oppressing  thos3 
whom  he  personally  disliked.  It  appears  that  there 
were  several  such  men  at  Athens — men  who  no  doubt 
aspired  to  imitate  the  grand  airs  and  fashionable  ex- 
travagance of  Alcibiades,  who,  clever  and  accomplished 
as  he  was,  at  last  made  himself  intolerable  to  th3  citi- 
zens of  a  free  state.  Many  of  these  had  nothing  but 
riches  to  recomniend  them,  and  -were  pestilent  fellows 


78  DEMOSTHENES. 

whose  idea  of  life  was  really  nothing  better  than  coarse, 
vulgar  rowdyism. 

It  was  the  fate  of  Demosthenes  to  come  into  collision 
with  a  man  of  this  class.  Early  in  life,  at  the  time 
when  he  was  engaged  in  his  suit  with  his  guardians, 
he  provoked  the  enmity  of  Meidia=!,  a  rich,  well-born 
man,  and  one  of  the  constant  supporters  of  the  peace 
party  of  Eubulus.  The  quarrel  between  them  originated 
in  the  following  singular  way.  The  brother  of  Meidias, 
Thrasylochus,  offered,  according  to  a  practice  allowed 
at  Athens  in  the  case  of  a  trierarchy,  or  the  provid- 
ing a  war-ship  for  the  State,  to  exchange  properties 
with  Demosthenes,  and,  in  the  event  of  the  offer  being 
accepted,  he  gave  the  guardians  privately  to  understand 
that  the  lawsuit  should  be  dropped.  In  this  manner 
he  sought  to  defeat  the  legal  proceedings  which  Demos- 
thenes was  taking,  and,  in  fact,  to  get  his  just  claims 
set  aside.  The  two  brothers,  it  appears,  on  one  occasion 
actually  rushed  into  his  house,  behaved  "with  excessive 
violence,  and  used  coarse  and  ribald  1  mguage  in  the 
presence  of  hissister,  then  a  mere  girl.  For  this  outrage 
Demosthenes  sued  Meidias,  and  recovered  damages  ; 
but  he  had  not  been  able  to  obcain  p  lyment.  From 
that  time  the  man  became  his  bitter  enemy,  and 
worried  and  persecuted  him  in  every  possible  way. 
His  animosity  was  all  the  more  virulent  as  he  was  also 
politically  ox>posed  to  Demosthenes.  In  the  year  351 
B.C.  both  served  in  a  military  expedition  to  Euboea — 
Meidias  in  the  cavalry,  Demosthenes  as  a  foot  soldier. 
Is  either  of  them  was  for  any  length  of  time  with  the 
army.  Demosthenes  went  baek  to  Athens,  on  the 
pretext  that  he  had  to  undertake  the  important  public 
duty  of  choragus  or  choir-director  for  his  tribe.  It 
s^ms  that  he  imdertook  this  quite  voluntarily,  but  his 


BEMOSTUE^'ES  AND  MItlDIAS.  77 

enemy  hinted  that  he  had  merely  doue  so  to  escape  the 
hardships  of  campaigning.  And  he  followed  up  the 
taunt  wiih  gross  insult  and  outrage.  The  choir-director, 
as  we  have  seen,  usually  appeared,  when  the  ceremony 
was  celebrated,  in  a  special  dress,  and  wore  a  crown ; 
and  Demosthenes  had  ordered  for  the  occasion  a 
particularly  magnificent  robe  and  a  crown  of  gold. 
Meidias  contrived  to  break  into  the  embroiderer's 
shop  where  the  dress  had  been  prepared,  and  spoilt 
the  finery  in  which  Demosthenes  was  to  show  him- 
self. He  went  further;  he  struck  him  on  the  face 
before  the  assembled  audience,  and,  according  to 
Demosthenes'  own  ac30unt,  was  the  means  of  losing 
him  the  prize,  which  his  chorus  would  have  won. 
The  spectators  were  indignant  ;  and  Meidias  was 
convicted  of  the  crime  of  sacrilege,  as  it  would  seem, 
on  the  very  same  day  by  an  assembly  held  in  the 
theatre.  But  the  affair  could  not  rest  here.  It  was 
for  a  courfc  of  justice  to  decide  how  he  was  to  be  pun- 
ished. Clearly,  it  was  right  that  Demosthenes  should 
prosecute  him,  and  this  he  did.  He  was  thirty-two 
years  of  age  at  the  time.  Meidias  tried  to  defeat  the 
persecution  by  indicting  Demosthenes  on  the  charge 
of  desertion  of  military  service,  on  the  ground  that  he 
had  left  the  army  in  Euboea  and  returned  to  Athens. 
The  indictment  came  to  nothing;  but  Demosthenes,  it 
appears,  was  not  decisively  sucoessf  ul  in  his  proceed- 
ings against  Meidias.  He  was  reproached  by  his  rival, 
./Eschines,  with  having  compromised  the  affair.  At 
all  events,  it  is  not  certain  whether  the  case  was  ever 
brought  to  trial.  But  the  tone  of  the  extant  speech 
certainly  implies  this;  and  it  ii  really  difficult  to  sup- 
pose, looking  at  some  passages  in  which  he  takes  ere  lit 
to  himself  for  having  rejected  a  compromise  and  having 


78  DEMOSTHENES. 

brought  the  defendant  to  trial,  that  it  was  merely  writ- 
ten and  never  delivered.  This  la,  we  know,  a  very 
general  opinion,  and  there  are  reasons  for  it;  but  in  the 
face  of  the  speech  as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  it  seems 
a  question  whether  it  can  be  sustained. 

The  tone  of  the  speech  is  savage  and  violent.  It  is 
full  of  furious  invective.  But  at  least  it  is  interesting 
as  giving  us  a  glimpse  into  some  of  the  abuses  arisidg 
out  of  wealth  and  insolence  even  in  a  democratical 
community  like  Athens.  We  have  an  amusing  picture 
of  Meidias  himself;  and  though  perhaps  it  is  a  cari- 
cature, it  was  no  doubt  typical  of  a  really  existing 
class.  He  had,  it  is  said,  got  himself  elected  a  cavalry 
officer  on  the  strength  of  being  a  rich  man,  and  yet  he 
could  not  so  much  as  ride  through  the  market-place. 
His  single  act  of  munificence  was  giving  the  State  a 
war-ship,  when  he  knew  he  was  not  likely  to  incur  any 
personal  danger.  He  delighted  ia  making  a  vulgar 
parade  of  his  wealth.  He  had  built  a  house  at  Eleusis, 
one  of  the  suburbs  of  Athens,  so  big  that  it  darkened 
all  the  houses  in  the  place.  He  used  to  take  his  wife 
to  the  Mysteries,  or  to  any  place  she  had  a  fancy  for 
visiting,  in  a  carriage  and  pair.  He  would  push 
through  the  market-place  and  the  leading  thorough- 
fares, talking  of  his  dinners  and  his  drinking-horns  so 
loud  that  all  the  passers-by  could  hear.  "Do  not,"  says 
Demosthenes  in  his  speech,  "honor  and  admire  things 
of  this  kind — do  not  judge  of  liberality  by  these  tests, 
whether  a  man  builds  splendid  houses  or  has  many 
female  servants,  or  handsome  furniture;  but  look  who 
is  spirited  and  liberal  in  those  things  which  the  bulk 
of  you  share  the  enjoyment  of.  Meidias,  you  v.- Ill 
tind.  has  nothing  of  that  kind  about  him." 


DEMOSTHENES  AND  MEIDIAS.  79 

"Will  you,"  he  asks,  "let  Meidias  escape  because 
he  is  rich?  This  is  pretty  much  the  cause  of  his 
insolence.  Therefore  you  should  rather  take  away  the 
means  which  enable  him  to  be  insolent  than  pardon 
him  in  consideration  of  them.  To  allow  an  audacious 
blackguard  like  him  to  have  wealth  at  his  command 
is  to  put  arms  in  his  .hands  against  yourselves." 

"  I  take  it  you  all  know  his  disposition,  his  offensive 
and  overbearing  behavior;  and  some  of  you,  I  daresay, 
have  been  wondering  about  things  which  they  know 
themselves,  but  have  not  heard  from  me  iiow.  Many 
of  the  injured  parties  do  not  even  like  to  tell  all  that 
they  have  suffered,  dreading  this  man's  litigiousness, 
and  the  fortune  which  makes  such  a  despicable  fellow 
strong  and  terrible.  For  when  a  rogue  and  a  bully  is 
supported  by  wealth  and  power,  it  is  a  wall  of  defence 
against  any  attack.  Let  Meidias  be  stripped  of  his 
possessions,  and  most  likely  he  will  not  play  the  bully. 
If  he  should,  he  will  be  less  regarded  than  the  humblest 
man  among  you ;  he  will  rail  and  bawl  to  no  purpose 
then,  and  be  punished  for  any  misbehavior  like  the 
rest  of  us.  Now,  it  seems,  Polyeuctus  and  Timocratcs 
and  the  ragamuffin  Euctemon  are  his  body-guard; 
these  are  a  sort  of  mercenaries  that  he  keeps  about 
him,  and  others  also  besides  them  a  confederate  band 
of  witnesses,  who  never  trouble  you  openly,  but  by 
simply  nodding  their  heads  affirm  and  lie  with  perfect 
case.  By  the  powers,  I  do  not  believe  they  get  any 
good  from  him;  but  they  are  wonderful  people  for 
making  up  to  the  rich,  and  attending  on  them,  and 
!;iving  evidence.  All  this,  I  take  it,  is  a  danger  to  any 
ui  you  that  live  quietly  by  yourselves  as  well  as  you 
can;  and  therefore  it  is  that  you  assemble  together,  in 
order  that,   though  taken  separately    you   are    over- 


80  DEMOSTHENES. 

matched  by  any  one  either  in  friends  or  riches,  or  in 
anything  else,  you  may  collectively  be  more  than  a 
match  for  him  and  put  a  stop  to  his  insoleoce." 

Mcidias,  according  to  Demosthenes,  was  at  heart  a 
coward,  and  would  be  sure  to  make  an  abject  appeal 
to  the  people's  pity.  The  following  passage  is  towards 
the  end  of  the  speech: 

"  I  know  he  will  have  his  children  in  court  and 
whine;  he  will  talk  very  humbly,  shedding  tears  and 
making  himself  as  piteous  as  he  can.  Yet  the  more  he 
humbles  himself,  the  more  ought  you  to  detest  him. 
Why?  Because  if  the  outrageousness  and  violence  of 
his  conduct  arose  out  of  his  inability  to  be  humble,  it 
would  have  been  fair  to  make  some  allowance  for  his 
temper,  and  the  accident  which  made  him  what  he  is. 
But  if  he  knows  how  to  behave  himself  properly  when 
h3  likes,  and  has  adopted  a  different  line  of  conduct  by 
choice,  surely  it  is  quite  evident  that  if  he  eludes 
justice  now,  he  will  again  become  the  same  Meidias 
that  you  know  him  for.  You  must  not  listen  to  him, 
then ;  you  must  not  let  the  present  occasion,  when  he 
is  playing  the  hypocrite  have  more  weight  and  influence 
with  you  than  the  whole  past  of  which  you  have  had 
experience. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  say  of  me.  This  man  is  an  orator. 
Well;  if  one  who  advises  what  he  thinks  for  your 
good,  without  being  troublesome  or  intrusive,  is  an 
orator,  I  would  not  deny  or  refuse  the  name.  But  if 
an  orator  be  what  (to  my  knowledge  and  to  your  knowl- 
edge) certain  of  our  speakers  are — impudent  fellows, 
enriched  at  your  expense — I  can  hardly  be  that;  for 
I  have  received  nothing  from  you,  but  spent  all  my 
substance  upon  you,  except  a  mere  trifle.  Probably, 
also,  Meidias  will  say  that  all  my  speech  is  prepared. 


DEMOSTHENES  AND  MEIDIAS.  81 

I  admit  tbat  I  have  got  it  up  as  well  as  1  possibly 
could.  I  were  a  complete  simpleton  indeed,  if,  having 
suffered  and  still  suffering  such  injuries,  I  took  no  pains 
about  the  mode  of  stating  them  to  you.  I  maintain 
that  Meidias  has  composed  my  speech;  he  who  has 
supplied  the  facts  which  the  speech  is  about,  may  most 
fairly  be  deemed  its  author,  not  he  who  has  merely  pre- 
pared it  or  studied  how  to  lay  an  honest  case  before 
you," 

The  speech  is  not,  we  think,  one  of  Demosthenes' 
best;  but  it  is  often  ingenious,  and  it  certainly  shows 
singular  power  of  invective.  It  suggests  that  what  we 
should  call  very  loose  practice  oa  the  part  of  an  advo- 
cate was  tolerated  in  an  Athenian  court.  Demosthenes 
by  no  means  confines  himself  to  the  outrage  committed 
on  him  by  Meidias,  but  speaks  of  the  injuries  he  had 
inflicted  on  others,  and  indeed  attacks  generally  the 
man's  whole  life  and  character.  The  attack  may  have 
been  deserved;  still,  the  manner  of  it,  and  the  circum- 
stances under  which  it  was  made,  point  to  the  exist- 
ence of  dangers  at  Athens  to  which  any  citizen  might 
suddenly  find  himself  exDOsed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Philip  master  of  thermopylob  and  of  phocis — 
peace  between  him  and  athens — counsel  of 
demosthenes. 

We  now  enter  on  a  period  of  melancholy  disgrace  and 
humiliation  for  the  Greek  race.  Within  two  years  the 
barbarian  destroyer  of  Olynthus  becomes  master  of  the 
key  to  Greece,  the  famous  pass  of  Thermopylae,  and  of 
the  whole  of  Phocis,  the  country  in  which  stood  the 
mountains  of  Parnassus,  and  the  old  and  venerable 
temple  of  Delphi.  Events  more  terrific  and  momentous, 
says  Demosthenes  in  one  of  his  speeches,  had  never 
occurred  either  in  his  own  time  or  that  of  any  of  his 
predecessors.  Athens  was  forced  into  a  miserably 
ignominous  peace,  and  many  of  her  citizens  had 
stooped  to  the  infamy  of  being  the  mere  tools  and 
paid  agents  of  the  "  man  of  Macedon."  Even  Isocrates, 
true  Greek  as  he  was  in  all  his  sympathies,  as  well  as 
thoroughly  upright  and  high-minded,  was  now  con- 
vinced that  the  best  wisdom  for  Greece  was  to  put 
itself  under  the  leadership  of  this  wonderfully  success- 
ful prince,  and  allow  him  to  conduct  its  united  armies 
to  the  conquest  of  Persia. 

The  history  of  these  five  years  is  somew'hat  intricate. 
It  will  be  enough  for  the  present  purpose  to  summarize 

82 


PEACE  BETWEEN  PHILIP  AND  ATHENS.  83 

the  general  course  of  events.    The  period  was  mainly 
occupied  in  negotiations  on  the  part  of  Athens  with 
Philip.     These  were  ill-managed,  and  had  a  most  dis- 
astrous conclusion.      One    motive    which    no    doubt 
prompted  them  w^as  the  very  natural  desire  of  recover- 
ing those  Athenian   citizens  who  had  been  captured 
with  the  Olynthians.     Towards  Athens  Philip  had  usu- 
ally shown  himself  gracious  and  conciliatory.     So,  when 
the  relatives  of  two  of  the  captives,  both  men  of  high 
position,  presented  themselves  as  suppliants  before  the 
Assembly,  it  was  decided  to  communicate  with  Philip. 
A  favorable  answer  was  received ;  and  we  have  reason 
to  believe  that  now  there  was  an  inclination  in  favor 
of  peace.     At  first  it  was  otherwise.    Even  Eubulus  and 
his  party,  who  held  war  the  worst  of  all  evils,  were 
constrained  to  speak  of  Philip  as  an  enemy.     They 
went  further;  they  attempted,  by  embassies  into  the 
Peloponnese,  to  raise  some  sort  of  coalition  against  him. 
Among  other  places  they  visited  Megalopolis,  where, 
however,  their  overtures  met  with  but  a  cold  reception. 
Athens  as  wc  have  had  occasion  to  notice,  had  made  a 
blunder  some  years  before  in  not  following  the  counsel 
of  Demosthenes  when  he  advised  that  the  Megalopoli- 
tans  should  be  supported   against  Sparta.     Now  she 
found  that  they  were  not  to  be  roused  into  action  by 
what  no  doubt  seemed  to  them  a  comparatively  remote 
danger.     There  would,  too,  have  been  some  political 
inconvenience  in  an  alliance  with  them.     Such  an  alli- 
ance would  have  meant  a  rupture  with  Sparta,  and  a 
friendly  attitude  towards  Thebes,  a  state  against  which 
Athenian  feeling  was  peculiarly  bitter.     As  soon  as 
ic  seemed  clear  that  there  was  no  prospect  of  organizing 
a  combination  throughout  Greece  against  Philip,  the 
v.ish  for  peace  grew  in  strength,  and  the  people  were 


84  DEMOSTHENES, 

not  averse  to  opening  negotiations  with  their  powerful 
enemy. 

It  is  at  this  juncture  that  the  name  of  Demosthenes' 
famous  rival  ^schincs  first  comes  before  us.  He  rose 
to  be  one  of  the  foremost  Athenian  orators  and  states- 
men from  a  very  lowly  origin.  His  lather  kept  what 
we  should  call  a  preparatory  school,  and  he  himself 
began  life  as  an  inferior  actor  and  a  government  clerk. 
He  was  a  man  of  immense  industry  and  ability,  and 
was  naturally  endowed  wiih  all  the  qualities  which  go 
to  make  an  orator.  Pie  was  one  of  the  envoys  sent 
on  the  mission  to  the  Pcloponnese,  which  had  for 
its  purpose  the  stirring  up  of  the  Greeks  against 
Macedonian  aggression.  It  appears  that  he  addressed 
a  very  powerful  appeal  to  the  Arcadian  Assembly  at 
Megalopolis,  fiercely  denouncing  all  traitors  to  the 
liberties  of  Greece,  and  stigmatizing  Philip  as  a  "  blood 
stained  barbarian."  Such  was  the  beginning  of  the 
political  life  of  a  man  who  subsequently  allowed  him 
self  to  become  the  means  of  furthering  that  "bar- 
barian's "  most  dangerous  designs  upon  Greece  and  her 
liberties. 

In  the  negotiations  of  this  period  between  Athens 
and  Philip,  ^schines  took  a  leading  part  as  an  envoy. 
So,  too,  did  Demosthenes  himself;  and  the  hostile 
relations  between  them,  which  subsequently  gave  oc- 
casion to  their  memorable  oratorical  contest,  date  from 
this  time.  We  have  for  the  most  part  to  depend  on 
the  conflicting  statements  of  the  two  orators  for  our 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances  by  which  Athens,  two 
years  after  the  ruin  of  Olynthus,  was  drawn  into  a 
shamefid  peace.  It  almost  seems  as  if  she  wilfully 
allowed  herself  to  make  one  stupid  blunder  after 
another.     But  this  is  not  a  true  view  of  the  case. 


PEACE  BETWEEN  PHILIP  AND  ATHENS.  %^ 

Athens,  no  doubt,  might  have  done  much  better  under 
the  guidance  of  really  firm  and  yery  skillful  statesman- 
ship; but  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  situation  was 
extremely  complicated,  and  it  was  barely  possible  to 
foresee  even  approximately  the  course  and  tendency 
of  events.  After  the  destruction  of  Olynlhus  it  must 
have  seemed  clear  that  Philip  was  the  enemy  of 
Greece;  and  that,  consequently,  it  was  the  duty  and 
policy  of  Athens  to  regard  him  in  this  light,  and 
decline  all  negotiations  with  him.  But  as  we  have 
seen,  Athens  was  not  able  to  organize  a  confederacy 
of  the  Greek  states  against  him;  and  if  she  had  de- 
cided to  fight  him,  she  must  have  felt  that  she  would 
have  to  fight  single-handed.  "When  to  this  considera- 
tion was  added  the  desire  to  recover  some  of  her  own 
citizens,  now  prisoners  in  Philip's  hands — when,  too, 
she  found  that  he  was  still  courteous  and  conciliatory — 
we  cannot  be  surprised  that  she  shrank  from  a  struggle 
which  would  have  tasked  her  resources  to  the  utter 
most.  It  might,  perhaps,  have  been  better  and  safer 
for  her  to  have  made  any  sacrifice,  and  have  at  once 
decided  on  war  against  the  destroyer  of  thirty  Greek 
cities ;  but  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  see  her  way  to 
such  a  step  alone  and  unsupported. 

The  relations,  too,  of  the  states  of  Greece  to  each 
other  and  to  Athens  presented  many  difficulties.  Never 
had  there  been  a  time  when  it  was  harder  to  unite 
them,  Sparta,  the  leading  state  of  the  Peloponnese, 
could  under  no  circumstances  be  easily  stimulated  into 
exertions  in  the  Greek  cause.  Her  statesmen  were  apt 
to  take  a  narrow  and  selfish  view  of  the  politics  of 
Greece.  The  other  states  of  the  Peloponnese  were  more 
afraid  of  being  oppressed  by  Spartan  ascendancy,  of 
which  they  had  had  actual  experience,  than  of  danger 


86  DEMOSTHEXES. 

from  Macedon,  of  which  they  knew  next  to  nothing. 
Here,  therefore,  there  was  but  a  poor  prospect  of  coali- 
tion. Thebes  and  Phocis,  the  two  remaining  states, 
were  themselves  engaged  in  the  Sacred  War.  Phocis 
had  appropriated  to  itself  the  treasures  of  the  temple 
of  Delphi,  and  had  thus  put  itself  in  a  false  position 
before  the  Greek  world,  as  being  guilty  of  sacrilege. 
And  as  for  Thebes,  it  had  no  really  great  and  far- 
sighted  statesmen;  nor  had  it,  to  the  extent  which 
Athens  still  had,  a  sense  of  its  duty  to  Greece.  Its 
policy  was  often  particularly  selfish;  and  even  under 
the  most  favorable  circumstances,  it  would  have  been 
most  difficult  to  have  persuaded  Thebans  to  co-operate 
heartily  with  Athenians.  So  anxious  was  it  to  crush 
its  Phocian  neighbors,  with  whom  it  had  long  been 
involved  in  a  troublesome  war,  and  when  Philip 
undertook  to  crush  them  it  welcomed  the  offer.  The 
bait  he  held  out  was  templing;  but  the  Thebans  ought 
to  have  had  enough  Greek  sentiment  not  to  listen  to 
his  proposals,  the  acceptance  of  which  would  probably 
lead  to  the  conquest  and  destruction  of  a  Greek  people 
by  a  barbarian.  Philip,  of  course,  could  justify  himself 
by  saying  that  he  was  attacking  those  who  were,  in  fact, 
the  enemies  of  Greece,  inasmuch  as  by  the  pillage  of  the 
sacred  treasures  of  Delphi  they  had  outraged  the  best 
and  truest  Greek  feeling.  But  to  conquer  Phocis  he 
must  be  master  of  Thermopylae;  and  if  he  once  gained 
this  position,  it  could  hardly  be  doubted  that  he  would  be 
able  to  do  as  he  pleased,  and  that  Thebes,  if  he  chose  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  her,  would  be  in  the  utmost  jeopardy. 
All  this  was  recognized  by  Demosthenes,  and,  as  it 
seems,  by  the  Athenians  generally.  They  were  quite 
alive  to  the  importance  of  garrisoning  Thermopylae, 
and  they  sent  a  force  there.    But  the  Phocian  leader, 


PEACE  BETWEEN  PHILIP  AND  ATHENS:  87 

Phalaecus,  from  some  sort  of  jealousy  towards  Athens, 
and  a  fear  that  political  intrigues  would  be  set  on  foot 
against  him  to  deprive  him  of  his  influence  with  his 
countrymen,  refused  to  admit  the  Athenian  troops  into 
possession  of  the  important  pass.  It  was  now  difficult 
for  the  Athenians  to  know  how  to  act.  For  anything 
they  knew  to  the  contrary,  Phalaecus  might  have  some 
understanding  with  Philip,  and  be  willing  to  surrender 
the  pass  to  him.  This  position  was  perplexing  and 
disheartening,  while  to  Phihp  it  was  a  grand  oppor- 
tunity. If  he  could  contrive  to  conclude  peace  with 
Athens,  and  to  get  the  Phocians  excluded  from  it,  he 
would  be  able,  with  some  sort  of  excuse,  to  occupy 
Thermopylae  and  invade  Phocis.  And  in  doing  this 
he  would  have  Thebes  on  his  side. 

After  much  negotiation,  this  was  the  result  which  he 
managed  to  accomplish.  Peace  was  concluded  between 
Philip  and  Athens,  their  respective  allies  being  included. 
"While  the  negotiations  were  pending,  and  the  Athe- 
nian envoys  were  waiting  at  Pella  for  an  interview 
with  the  King,  he  was  in  Thrace,  and  gained  some 
important  successes  over  the  chief  of  the  country, 
Cersobleptes,  at  this  time  an  ally  of  Athens.  The 
effect  of  this  was  to  weaken  and  endanger  the  hold 
which  Athens  had  on  the  Thracian  Chersonese, — a 
specially  valuable  possession.  Indeed,  peace  was 
made  ultimately  on  terms  which  the  Athenians  had 
not  originally  contemplated.  This,  Domosthenes  main- 
tained, was  due  to  the  treachons  connivanace  of 
^schines  and  some  of  the  other  envoys,  who  loit- 
ered at  Pella  when  they  ought  to  have  at  once  made 
their  way  to  Philip  in  Thrace,  and  settled  matters  with 
him  on  the  basis  which  had  been  mutually  agreed  on. 
But  the  most  terrible  mistake  was  the  exclusion   of  the 


88  DEMOSTHENES. 

Phocians  from  the  treaty.  The  Athenians  were  sonie- 
how  cajoled  into  believing  that  Philip  meant  them 
well;  and  even  Demosthenes  did  not  at  the  time 
protest  against  the  abandonment  of  Phocis.  The 
error  was  irretrievable,  for  it  amounted  to  nothing 
less  than  letting  Philip  become  master  of  Thermopylae. 
The  Phocians  could  not  hold  the  pass  without  support. 
When  they  found  themselves  isolated,  their  leader, 
PLalaecus,  after  being  summoned  by  Philip  to  give  up 
possession  of  it,  consented  to  do  so  under  a  convention, 
and  withdrew  his  forces.  The  surrender  of  Phocis  to 
Philip  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  dealt  with 
the  country  and  its  towns  as  he  had  dealt  two  years 
before  with  Chalcidice  and  its  towns.  Phocis  was 
utterly  ruined.  Another  Greek  state  had  now  fallen 
before  the  Macedonian  destroyer,  and  the  prospects  of 
Greece  generally  might  well  seem  gloomy. 

The  calamity,  however,  was  not  so  shocking  to  the 
Greek  world  as  one  might  have  supposed  it  would  have 
been.  The  Phocians,  as  has  been  explained,  had  been 
offenders  against  the  common  law  and  traditions  of 
Greece,  and  their  destruction  might  be  regarded  as  a 
divine  judgment.  Even  the  man  who  executed  it, 
though  a  barbarian  according  to  Greek  notions,  might 
have  some  claim  to  be  considered  as  the  representative 
of  a  sacred  cause.  In  one  sense  he  had  been  doing  the 
very  thing  which  the  voice  of  Greece  had  been  calling 
for.  The  Thebans  were  especially  grateful  to  him,  and 
I  forgot  in  their  blindness  the  mischief  which  by  this 
last  stroke  he  had  inflicted  on  Greece.  Now  that  the 
Phocians  had  ceased  to  exist  as  a  Greek  people,  their 
place  in  the  Amphiciyonic  Council  was,  when  the 
great  Pythian  festival  came  round  after  a  four  years' 
interval,  conferred  on  Philip.     He  was  even  nominated 


PEACE  BETWEEN  PHILIP  AND  ATHENS.     89 

peesident  of  the  august  ceremony.  In  all  this  Thebes 
heartily  concurred,  as  also  did  several  smaller  states. 
Athens  and  Sparta,  indeed,  held  aloof.  But  when 
Philip's  envoys  announced  to  the  Athenians  the  new 
position  he  had  acquired  with  the  consent  of  so  many 
Greek  states,  they  did  not  like  to  refuse  concurrence  iu 
what  a  large  part  of  Greece  seemed  to  approve. 

Strong  as  Philip  was  before,  he  was  now  immensely 
strengthened,  and  fresh  chances  were  open  to  him  for 
interfering  actively  in  Greek  politics.  Membership  of 
the  Amphictyonic  Council  was,  in  fact,  equivalent  to 
naturalization.  Philip  was  now,  in  theory  at  least,  a 
Greek,  and  no  longer  a  barbarian.  The  Athenian 
Isocrates  could,  with  a  show  of  reason,  address  a  letter 
to  him,  inviting  him  to  reconcile  under  his  leadership 
the  great  states  of  Greece,  and  invade  Asia  with  a  view 
to  the  overthrow  of  the  Persian  empire  and  the  libera- 
tion of  the  Asiatic  Greeks.  But  the  Athenians  gener- 
ally felt  deep  anger  and  vexation  at  the  issue  of  events, 
and  could  hardly  make  up  their  minds  to  sit  still 
under  the  disgrace  of  the  surrender  of  Thermopylae 
and  the  intrusion  of  a  foreign  prince  into  the  heart  of 
Greece. 

Demostlienes,  as  has  been  said,  had  no  sympathy 
with  the  ideas  of  Isocrates.  He  slill  clung  to  the  belief 
in  a  general  independent  Greek  world,  of  which  his 
own  state  ought  to  be  the  most  perfect  representative. 
Yet  on  this  occasion  he  spoke  in  favor  of  the  in- 
glorious peace  just  concluded.  Miserable  as  it  was,  he 
argued  that  to  break  it  would  be  to  give  Philip  a  pre- 
text for  uniting  other  Greek  fitates  in  war  against  them. 
Tlie  tone  of  his  speech  is  confident  and  decided.  The 
peace  was  bad  and  dishonorable,  no  doubt,  but  to 
repudiate  it  would  be  simply  madness.      It  would  bo 


90  DEMOSTHENES. 

putting  themselves  gratuitously  in  the  wrong.  "The 
shadow  at  Delphi,"  as  he  calls  the  subject  of  the  Sacred 
war  which  had  been  waged  between  Thebes  and  Pho- 
cis,  was  not  worth  fighting  for,  more  especially  when 
they  would  have  to  fight  a  Greek  confederacy.  It 
could  not  have  been  altogether  pleasant  to  Demosthenes 
to  advise  acquiescence  in  a  peace  which  he  and  his 
countrymen  generally  felt  to  be  humiliating.  But  as 
they  had  drifted  into  it,  all  they  could  now  do  was  to 
make  the  best  of  it,  and  guard  themselves  from  new 
aggressions. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DEM0STHENE8  CONTINUES  HIS  SPEEECHES  AGAINST 
PHrLIP. 

From  the  peace  of  346  B.C.  we  may  date  a  revolution 
in  the  Greek  world.  Philip  had  acquired  a  new  posi- 
tion, and  it  was  aclinowleged  that  he  had  henceforth 
a  right  to  take  a  part  in  Greek  politics.  Even  Demos- 
thenes had  to  recognize  the  fact  of  a  change  of  sen- 
timent towards  him.  Isocrates  could  argue  more 
plausibly  than  ever  that  everything  pointed  to  him  as 
the  true  head  and  champion  of  Greece,  and,  conse- 
quently, as  the  predestined  conqueror  of  Asia,  the  old 
antagonist  of  Greece. 

The  peace  just  concluded  was  soon  seen  to  be  a 
thoroughly  hollow  one.  Philip,  it  was  evident,  had  no 
intention  of  being  really  bound  by  it,  any  longer  than 
it  answered  his  purpose.  This  the  Athenians  could 
hardly  fail  to  understand,  however  much  they  might 
try  to  deceive  themselves;  and  their  feeling  towards 
him  was  made  up  of  fear  and  anger.  We  might  have 
thought  that  he  could  have  at  once  organized  a  Greek 
confederacy  against  Persia  with  almost  a  certainty  of 
su'jcess,  but  he  seems  to  have  been  too  cautious  and 
astute  to  expose  himself  to  any  serious  risks.  His 
policy  was  to  secure  a  yet  firmer  footing  in  the  Greek 

01 


92  DEMOSTHENES. 

world.  Athens,  he  knew,  was  his  only  formidable 
eac3iy.  There  was  still  a  possibility  that  she  might 
ro'as3  Greece  against  him,  and  overpower  him  by  a 
cjilition  of  which  she  would  b3  the  head.  He  mist 
therefore  end-javor  to  isolate  her  by  political  intrig:ie3, 
aod,  by  driving  her  out  of  the  Ch-jrsonese,  strike  a  fatal 
blow  at  the  cotnmerca  on  which  h^r  prosperity  largely 
depended. 

With  these  views  ho  bsgan  to  meddle  with  the  politics 
of  the  Peloponnese.  There  circumstances  favored  his 
designs.  He  had  the  opportunity  of  playing  the  part 
of  champion  and  deliverer  to  the  oppressed.  Sparta 
was  the  great  object  of  dread  to  the  people  of  Argos,  of 
Megalopolis,  and  of  Messene.  They  could  not  imagine 
that  they  had  any  other  enemy  to  fear.  Thebes  had 
hitherto  been  their  protector,  but  Thebes  was  no  longer 
in  a  condition  to  command  their  confidence.  It  was  to 
Philip  that  they  now  not  unnaturally  looked.  It  was 
hardly  to  be  expected  that  they  would  abstain  from  in- 
voking his  aid  against  a  pressing  and  immediate  dan- 
ger, because  it  may  have  been  suggested  to  them  that 
they  were  thereby  imperiling  the  b3st  interests  of  Greece. 
What  they  wanted  was  help  agiinst  Sparta,  and  this 
Philip  promised  them.  He  would,  he  said,  soon  be 
with  them  in  person;  and  meanwhile  he  sent  them 
some  troops,  and  bade  Sparta  refrain  from  any  attempt 
on  Messene. 

This  was  a  clever  movement  on  Philip's  part,  and 
Athens  could  not  very  well  protest  against  it  or  seek  to 
thwart  it.  All  that  could  be  said  was  that,  judging 
from  the  past,  it  was  an  interferenc3  which  ultimately 
meant  mischief.  Demosthenes  succeeded  in  bringing 
the  Athenians  to  this  point  of  view.  He  induced  them 
to  send  an  embassy,  himself  being  at  the  head  of  it, 


SPEECHES  AGAINST  PHILIP.  93 

into  the  Peloponnese,  the  express  object  of  which  was 
to  defeat  Philip's  diplomacy.  He  visited  several  of 
the  cities,  and  addressed  warnings  to  them  based  on 
th3  bad  failh  of  Piiilip  generally,  and  on  his  treatment 
of  01ynthu3  particularly.  He  told  them-  plainly  that 
in  tlioir  fear  and  hatred  of  Sparta  they  were  allowing 
themselves  to  become  his  accomplices  in  enslaving 
and  ruining  Greece.  It  seems  that  one  of  the  chief 
arguments  on  which  he  insisted  was  the  utter  impossi- 
bility of  a  sincere  and  hearty  union  between  free  states 
and  a  despot.  This  would  be  sure  to  impress  the 
democratic  party — always  a  powerful  element  in  a 
Greek  state.  He  was  heard — so  he  tells  us  himself 
in  one  of  his  subsequent  speeches — with  approbation 
and  applause,  but  he  failed  to  convince.  There  were,  as 
he  says  in  another  speech,  those  in  every  state  who  were 
willing  to  be  controlled  by  a  foreign  power,  if  only  they 
could  get  the  upper  hand  of  their  fellow-citizens.  The 
old  love  of  freedom  and  of  legal  government,  which 
had  been  the  great  glory  of  Greece,  seemed  to  be  on 
the  wane.  Still  Demosthenes  accomplished  something. 
Philip  thought  it  necessary  to  send  envoys  to  Athens 
with  some  sort  of  apology  for  himself  and  his  general 
policy;  and  an  embassy  also  came,  perhaps  at  his  sug- 
gestion, from  some  of  the  states  of  the  Peloponnese. 
Athens  was  in  a  perplexing  position.  Philip  could 
plausibly  say  that  the  Athenians  were  unreasonably 
suspicious  towards  him,  and  even,  in  fact,  disregarding 
the  spirit  of  the  peace  recently  concluded.  The  envoys 
from  Argos  and  Messene  might  fairly  complain  of  the 
seeming  connection  between  Athens  and  Sparta,  and 
argue  that  it  was  a  menace  to  the  liberties  of  the 
Peloponnese.  It  was  a  great  and  critical  occasion,  and 
called  for  able  statesmanship.     It  was  an  opportunity 


94  DEMOSTHEJS^ES. 

jto  raise  yet  higher  the  character  of  Demostheaes  as  a 
public  adviser,  and  he  availed  himself  of  it.  la  the 
speech  which  he  delivered  in  b.c.  344,  known  as  the 
second  Piiilippic,  he  spoke  out  in  tlie  plainest  lan- 
guage boih  against  Philip's  insinuations  and  against 
the  ill-timed  complaints  of  the  Peloponnesian  envoys. 
He  vindicated  at  the  same  time  his  ovsrn  policy,  and 
denounced  the  Philippizing  faction,  in  which  his  rival 
uEschines  was  now  a  conspicuous  figure. 

Philip,  he  declares,  was  the  great  aggressor  of  the 
^age ;  he  was  a  plotter  against  the  whole  of  Greece.  He 
repeats  what  he  liad  said  as  ambassador  to  the  people 
of  Mcssene  by  the  way  of  warning  from  the  past : 

"Ye  men  of  Messene,  how  do  you  think  the  Olyn- 
thians  would  have  looked  to  hear  anything  against  Philip 
at  those  times  when  he  surrendered  to  them  Anthemus, 
which  all  former  kings  of  Macedonia  claimed,  when  he 
cast  out  the  Athenian  colonists  and  gave  them  Potidaea, 
thereby  incurring  your  enmity,  and  giving  them  the 
land  to  enjoy?  Think  you  that  they  expected  such 
treatment  as  they  got,  or  would  they  have  believei  it 
if  they  had  been  told?  Nevertheless,  after  enjoying 
for  a  brief  space  the  possessions  of  others,  they  are  for 
a  long  period  deprived  by  Philip  of  their  own,  shame- 
fully expelled — not  only  vanquished,  but  betrayed  by 
one  another  and  sold.  In  truth,  these  too  close  con- 
nections with  despots  are  not  safe  for  free  states. 
There  are  manifold  contrivances  for  the  guarding  and 
defending  of  cities— as  ramparts,  walls,  trenches,  and 
the  like;  these  are  all  made  with  hands  and  demand 
an  outlay.  But  there  is  one  common  safeguard  in  the 
nature  of  wise  men  which  is  a  good  security  for  all, 
but  especially  for  democracies  against  despots.  What 
do  I  mean?    Mistrust.    Keep  this;  hold  to  this:  pre- 


SPEECHES  AGAINST  PHILIP.  95 

serve  this  only,  and  you  can  never  be  injured.  What 
do  ye  desire?  Freedom.  Then  do  you  not  see  that 
with  this  Philip's  very  titles  are  at'  variance?  Every 
king  and  despot  is  a  foe  to  freedom,  an  antagonist  t3 
laws.  Will  ye  not  h3ware,  k-st  in  seeking  to  be  de- 
livered from  war  yon  find  a  master?  " 

Yet  in  a  speech  delivered  three  years  afterwards, 
which  we  shall  shortly  notice,  Demosthenes  suggests 
that  they  might  entertain  the  thought  of  seeking  aid 
even  from  Persia.  The  suggestion,  perhaps,  was  only 
made  in  desperation,  and  must  not  be  taken  as  repre- 
senting anything  like  a  change  of  political  sentiments. 
To  the  last  Demosthenes  was  a  beUever  in  free  and 
popular  governments  as  opposed  to  tyrannies  and  des- 
potisms. Still,  as  he  has  to  admit,  such  governments 
are  liable  to  be  out-manoeuvred  by  cunning  diplomacy. 
So  it  had  been  with  themselves,  as  he  reminds  them 
in  the  present  speech.  They  had  been  persuaded  to 
believe  that  Philip,  if  he  became  master  of  Thermo- 
pylDB,  would  humble  their  old  enemy  Thebes,  and  give 
them  Oropus  and  Eubcea  in  exchange  for  Amphipolis. 

"All  these  declarations  on  the  hustings,"  he  says, 
with  the  Philippizing  party  in  his  eye,  "  I  am  sure  you 
remember,  though  you  are  not  famous  for  remembering 
injuries.  While  the  mischief  is  only  coming  and  pre- 
paring, whilst  we  hear  one  another  speak,  I  wish 
every  man,  though  he  know  it  well,  to  be  reminded 
who  it  was  persuaded  you  to  abandon  Phocis  and 
Thermopylae,  by  the  possession  of  which  Philip  com- 
mands the  road  to  Attica  and  Peloponnese,  and  has 
brought  it  to  thi^,  that  you  have  now  to  deliberate,  not 
about  claims  and  interests  abroad,  but  about  the  de- 
fence of  your  home  and  a  war  in  Attica,  which  will  be 
a  grievous  shock  to  every  citizen  when  it  comes;  and 


96  DEMOSTHENES. 

indeed  it  commenced  from  that  day  of  your  infatuation. 
Had  you  not  been  then  deceived,  tliere  would  be  noth- 
ing now  to  distress  the  State." 

One  point  insisted  on  in  this  speech  is,  that  the 
struggle  in  the  Greek  states  was  no  Ioniser,  as  it  had 
hitherto  baen,  one  between  aristocracy  and  democracy, 
but  between  Philip's  party  and  its  opponents. 

The  following  year  witnessed  a  memorable  contest 
between  Demosthenes  and  ^schines.  It  arose  out  of 
the  embassies  to  Philip  and  the  various  negotiations 
with  him,  which  ended,  as  we  have  seen,  so  unfortu- 
nately for  Athens  and  G-reece.  ^schines,  it  will  be 
remembered,  was  an  adherent  of  the  peace  party  of 
Eubulus,  and  Demosthenes  now  made  a  great  effort 
to  discredit  him,  as  being,  in  fact,  corruptly  responsible 
for  Philip's  occup:ation  of  Thermopylae ,  the  destruction 
of  Phocis,  and  the  new  and  powerful  position  which 
he  had  been  able  to  assume  in  Greece.  The  pleadings 
of  both  the  orators  in  this  great  cause  have  come  down 
to  us,  and  they  are  specially  valuable  as  supplying  U3 
with  materials  for  the  history  of  an  intricate  period- 
Demosthenes  presses  his  attack  with  great  vehemence, 
and  resorts,  as  he  well  knew  how,  to  the  most  savage 
invective.  To  our  minds  it  is,  as  a  w^ork  of  art,  one 
of  the  least  pleasing  and  satisfactory  of  his  speeches. 
There  i?  a  coarseness  and  vulgarity  about  the  vitupera- 
tion— ^and  that  too,  under  circumstances  in  which  very 
strong  condemnation  of  bis  rival  must  have  been  felt 
to  have  been  a  mistake.  He  taunts  ^schines  with 
having  been  all  along  the  conscious  tool  of  Philip's 
cunning  policy,  when  it  was  perfectly  well  known  that 
he  had  himself,  from  want  of  clear  foresight  perhaps, 
not  steadily  opposed  that  policy  at  more  than  one  crit- 
ical point.   He  was  not  successful;  but  the  victory  woo 


SPEECHES  AGAINST  PHILIP.  97 

by  his  rival  was  a  very  poor  one.  ^schiues  was  ac- 
quitted only  by  Ihii'ty  votes.  This  implies  that,  on 
the  whole,  public  opinion  was  against  him,  though  it 
may  have  been  felt  that  distinct  and  positive  evidence 
was  wanting.  We  may  infer  that  Demosthenes'  polit- 
ical influence  was  very  great.  He  failed  probably  be- 
cause, as  Dr.  Thirlwall  remarks,  he  had  an  extremely 
intricate  case,  and  could  not  attack  uEschines  effec- 
tively without  having  from  time  to  time  to  defend 
himself  and  explain  certain  ambiguities  in  his  own 
share  in  the  negotiations. 

Athens,  as  has  been  said,  was  now  particularly  vul- 
nerable in  the  Thracian  Chersonese  and  the  north  of 
the  vEgean.    To  these  points  the  restless  Philip  directed 
his  attention  in  343-341  B.C.     It  could  not  be  doubted 
that  he  was  meditating  the  annexation  of  this  important 
district,  and  the  conquest  of  the  Geeek  cities  on  the 
northern  shore  of  the  Propontis — Perinthus,  Selymbria, 
and  above  all  Byzantium.     If  he  could  achieve  this, 
Athens  would  be  completely  paralyzed.     Her  maritime 
supremacy  would  be  at  an  end,  and  her  supplies  of 
corn  would  be  cut  off.     She  would  cease  to  exist  as 
a  commercial  power.      Philip's  designs  on  Athens  in 
Thrace  were  not  unlike  those  of  Napoleon  I.  on  Eng 
land  in  his  attacks  on  Egypt  and  Spain.     It  was  argued 
in  Parliament  at  the  time,  that  in  carrying  on  war 
with  Frauce  in  these  countries,  we  were  practically 
standing  on  our  own  defence.     Demosthenes  took  the 
same  line  of  argument  against   Philip.     A  force  hud 
been  sent  out  from  Athens  to  the   Chersonese  as  an 
array  of  observation  on  Philip's    movements.      The 
general,  Diopeithes,  was  an  able,  energetic  man;  and  it 
is  interesting  to  us  to  know  that  he  was  the  father  of  the 
poet  Menander.     There  were  some  disputes  between 
4 


98  DEMOSTHENES 

the  Athenian  colonists  and  the  Cardians  to  the  north 
of  the  Chersonese.  Philip  seemed  disposed  to  favor 
the  latter,  upon  which  Diopeithes  at  once  retaliated  by 
invading  Macedonian  territory.  He  gained  some  suc- 
cesses, and  for  a  while  even  deprived  Philip  of  some 
of  his  recent  conquests.  Considering  that  the  peace  of 
346  B.C.  was  still  in  force,  Athens  may  be  said  to  have 
been  put  in  the  wrong  by  her  over-zealous  general,  and 
Philip  sent  the  people  a  despatch  in  which  he  formally 
complained  of  these  encroachments.  All  his  political 
adherents  at  Athens  clamored  for  the  instant  recall  of 
Diopeithes.  Like  other  Athenian  generals,  Diopeithes, 
who  commanded  some  mercenaries,  was  almost  com- 
pelled to  provide  for  them  by  expeditions  which  could 
not  be  strictly  justified.  Still,  it  might  be  truly  argued 
in  his  favor  that  he  was  really  repelling  a  dangerous 
aggressor.  And  on  this  ground  Demosthenes  pleaded  his 
cause,  and  argued  that  he  should  be  continued  in  his 
command.  The  speech  he  delivered  on  this  occasion 
— "On  behalf  of  the  Chersonese,"  as  it  has  been 
entitled — contains  the  clear  and  powerful  reasonings  of 
a  sagacious  statesman. 

The  people,  he  maintains,  ought  to  deal  with  their 
enemies  before  they  call  their  own  servants  to  account. 
It  was  very  well  for  Philip  to  complain  of  an  infringe- 
ment of  the  peace  in  this  particular  instance;  but  was 
it  not  notorious  that  he  had  himself  deprived  Athens 
of  her  own  possessions?  It  was  a  mere  blind  to  say, 
as  some  said,  that  they  must  make  up  their  minds  to 
have  either  war  or  peace.  "If  it  appears  that  from 
the  very  first  Philip  has  robbed  us  of  our  territories, 
and  has  been  all  along  incessantly  gathering  the  spoil 
of  other  nations,  Greek  and  barbarian,  for  the  materials 


8PEEGHE8  AGAINST  PEILLP,  99 

of  an  attack  upon  you,  what  do  they  mean  by  saying 
we  must  have  war  or  peace? " 

"Consider  what  is  actually  going  on.  Philip  is 
staying  with  a  large  army  in  Thrace,  and  sending  for 
reinforcements,  as  eye-witnesses  report,  from  Macedonia 
.and  Thessaly.  Now,  should  he  wait  for  the  trade- 
winds,  and  then  march  to  the  siege  of  Byzantium, 
think  ye  that  the  Byzantines  would  persist  in  their 
present  folly,  and  would  not  invite  and  implore  your 
aid?  I  do  not  believe  it.  No;  they  will  receive  any 
people,  even  those  they  distrust  more  than  us,  sooner 
than  surrender  their  city  to  Philip — unless,  indeed,  he 
is  beforehand  with  them  and  captures  it.  If,  then, 
we  are  unable  to  sail  northward,  and  there  be  no 
hylp  at  hand,  nothing  can  prevent  their  destruction. 
Well;  let  us  say  the  Bysan tines  are  infatuated  and  be- 
sotted. Very  likely;  yet  they  must  be  rescued,  because 
it  is  good  for  Athens.  Nor  is  it  clear  that  he  will  not 
attack  the  Chersonese;  nay,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
letter  he  sent  us,  he  says  he  will  chastise  the  people  in 
the  Chersonese.  If  the  present  army  be  kept  on  foot, 
it  will  be  able  to  defend  that  country,  and  attack  some 
of  Philip's  dominions.  But  if  it  become  disbanded, 
what  shall  we  do  if  he  march  against  the  Chersonese? 
With  such  facts  and  arguments  before  you,  so  far  from 
disbanding  this  army  which  Diopeithes  is  endeavoring 
to  organize  for  Athens,  you  ought  yourselves  to  pro- 
vide an  additional  one,  to  support  him  with  funds,  and 
with  other  friendly  co-operation." 

In  the  following  passag3  he  inveighs  against  his 
political  opponents,  and  the  extreme  license  of  speech 
allowed  to  them  in  practically  advocating  the  interests 
of  Philip: 


100  DEMOSTHENES. 

*'  This,  you  must  be  convinced,  is  a  struggle  for 
existence.  You  cannot  overcome  your  enemies  abroad 
till  you  have  punished  your  enemies,  his  ministers,  at 
home.  They  yNiW  be  the  stumbling-blocks  which  pre- 
vent you  reaching  the  others.  Why,  do  you  suppose, 
Philip  now  insults  you?  To  other  people  ho  at  least 
renders  services  though  he  deceives  them,  while  he  is 
already  threatening  you.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the 
Thestaliaus.  It  was  by  many  benefits  conferred  oa 
them  that  he  seduced  them  into  their  present  bondage. 
And  then  the  Olynthians,  again, — how  he  cheated  them, 
first  giving  them  Potida^a  and  several  other  places, 
is  really  beyond  description.  Now  he  is  enticing  the 
Thebans  by  giving  up  to  them  Boeotia,  and  delivering 
them  from  a  toilsome  and  vexatious  war.  Each  of 
these  people  did  get  a  certain  advantage;  but  some  of 
them  have  suffered  what  all  the  world  knows;  others 
will  suffer  whatever  may  hereafter  befall  them.  As 
for  you,  I  recount  not  all  that  has  beeu  taken  from 
you,  but  how  shamefully  have  you  been  treated  and 
despoiled !  Why  is  it  that  Philip  deals  so  differently 
with  you  and  with  others?  Because  yours  is  the  only 
state  in  Greece  in  which  the  privilege  is  allowed  of 
speaking  for  the  enemy,  and  a  citizen  taking  a  bribe 
may  safely  address  the  Assembly,  though  you  have 
been  robbed  of  your  dominions.  It  was  not  safe  at 
Olynthus  to  be  Philip's  advocate  unless  the  Olynthian 
commonalty  had  shared  the  advantage  by  possession 
of  Potidaea.  It  was  not  safe  in  Thessaly  to  be  Philip's 
advocate  unless  the  people  of  Thessaly  had  secured  the 
advantage  by  Philip's  expelling  their  tyrants  and  re- 
storing the  synod  at  Pylse.  It  was  not  safe  in  Thebes, 
until  he  gave  up  Boeotia  to  them  and  destroyed  the 
Phocians.     Yet  at  Athens,  though  Philip  has  deprived 


SPEECHES  AQAIWST  PHILIP.  101 

you  of  Amphipolis  and  the  territory  round  Cardia— 
nay,  is  making  Euboea  a  forte ;S  as  a  check  upon  us, 
and  is  advancing  to  attack  Byzantium — it  is  safe  to 
speak  in  Philip's  behalf." 
He  thus  concludes  the  speech: 

"I  will  sum  up  my  advice  and  sit  down.  You  must 
contribute  money,  and  maintain  the  existing  troops, 
rectifying  any  abuse  you  may  discover,  but  not,  on  any 
accusation  which  somebody  may  bring,  disbanding  the 
force.  Send  out  ambassadors  everywhere  to  insti-uct,  to 
■warn,  to  accomplish  what  they  can  for  Athens.  Further, 
I  say,  punish  your  corrupt  statesmen,  execrate  them  at 
all  times  and  places,  and  thereby  prove  that  men  of 
virtue  and  honorable  conduct  have  consulted  wisely 
both  for  others  and  for  themselves." 

It  is  satisfactory  to  learn  that  this  speech  was  success- 
ful, and  that  Diopeithes,  who  certainly  deserved  well  of 
his  country,  was  continued  in  his  command,  and  the 
Chersonese  saved  for  Athens. 

Demosthenes  was  now  the  leading  Athenian  states- 
man. He  had  shaken  the  influence  of  the  peace  party, 
and  he  seems  to  have  still  further  strengthened  his 
political  position  by  a  speech  delivered  about  three 
months  after  that  which  we  have  just  been  considering. 
The  speech  in  question  has  alwaj'-s  been  regarded  as  one 
of  singular  power.  As  far  as  we  know,  nothing  new 
had  occurred ;  but  Philip  was  still  in  Tlirace,  threaten- 
ing the  Chersonese  and  the  northern  shores  of  the 
Propontis,  and  clearly  had  designs  on  Perinthus  and 
Byzantium.  Demosthenes  repeats  in  substance  the 
arguments  he  had  recently  urged.  Greece,  he  says,  is 
in  the  utmost  peril  from  its  miserable  divisions  and 
apathy,  and  from  the  unique  position  which  it  has 
allowed  Philip  to  attain.     As  for  Athens,  "  her  affairs 


102  DEMOSTHENES. 

had  been  brought  so  low  by  carelessness  and  negli- 
gence, I  fear  it  is  a  hard  truth  to  say  that  if  all  the  ora- 
tors had  sought  to  suggest,  and  you  to  pass,  resolutions 
for  the  utter  ruining  of  the  commonwealth,  we  could 
not.  methinks,  be  worse  off  than  we  are."  It  had  been 
said  at  Athens  in  the  speeches  of  some  of  the  orators, 
"Wait  till  Philip  declares  war,  and  then  it  will  be 
lime  to  discuss  how  we  shall  resist  him."  Demosthenes' 
reply  is : 

"  If  we  wait  till  Philip  avows  that  he  is  at  war  with 
u?,  we  are  the  simplest  of  mortals;  for  he  would  not 
declare  war,  though  he  marched  even  against  Athens 
and  Piraeus — at  least,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  conduct 
to  others.  When  he  sends  his  mercenaries  into  the 
Chersonese,  which  the  king  of  Persia  and  all  the  Greeks 
acknowledge  to  be  yours,  what  can  be  the  meaning  of 
such  proceedings?  He  says  he  is  not  at  w^ar.  But  I 
cannot  admit  such  conduct  to  be  an  observance  of  the 
peace.  Far  otherwise.  I  say  that  by  his  present  ad- 
vance into  Thrace,  by  his  intrigues  in  the  Peloponnese, 
by  the  whole  course  of  his  operations  with  his  army,  he 
has  been  breaking  the  peace  and  making  war  upon  you, 
— unless,  indeed,  you  will  say  that  those  who  establish 
military  engines  are  not  at  war  until  they  apply  them 
to  the  walls.  But  that  you  will  not  say;  for  whoever 
prepares  and  contrives  the  means  for  my  conquest,  is 
at  war  with  me  before  he  hurls  the  dart  or  draws  the 
bow.  Should  anything  happen,  what  is  the  risk^you 
run?  The  alienation  of  the  Hellespont,  the  subjection 
of  Megara  iand  Euboea  to  your  enemy,  the  siding  of* 
the  Pc4oponnese  with  him.  Then,  can  I  allow  that 
one  who  sets  such  an  engine  at  work  against  Athens 
is  at  peace  with  her?  Quite  the  contrary.  From  the 
day  that  he  destroyed  Phocis  I   date  his  com^iencc- 


SPEEGUES  AGAINST  PHILIP,  103 

ment  of  hostilities.  So  widely  do  I  differ  from  your 
other  advisers  that  I  deem  aay  discussion  about  the 
Chersonese  or  Byzantium  out  of  place.  Succor  them 
— I  advise  that;  watch  that  no  harm  befalls  them;  send 
all  necessary  supplies  to  your  troops  in  that  quarter; 
but  let  your  deliberations  be  for  the  safety  of  all 
Greece,  as  bein^  in  the  most  extreme  jeopardy." 

The  Greeks,  he  declares,  must  have  utterly  forgotten 
themselves  in  allowing  a  foreigner  and  a  barbarian  a 
license  in  dealing  with  their  affairs  which  they  had 
never  thought  of  according  to  such  states  as  Athens 
or  Sparta.  This  was  monstrous,  and  implied  a  fatal 
degeneracy . 

"  I  observe,"  says  the  orator,  "  thit  all  people  be- 
ginning from  yourselves  have  conceded  to  Philip  a 
right  which  in  former  days  was  the  subject  of  contest 
in  every  Greek  war.  What  is  this?  The  right  ot 
doing  what  he  pleases,  openly  fleecing  and  pillaring 
the  Greeks  one  after  another,  attacking  and  enslaving 
their  cities.  You  were  at  the  head  of  tho  Greeks  for 
seventy-three  years,  the  Lacedaemonians  for  twenty- 
nine,  and  the  Thebans  had  some  power  in  these  l:.tter 
days  after  the  battle  of  Leuctra.  Yet  neither  you  nor 
Lacedaemonian  nor  Thebans  were  ever  licensed  to  act 
as  you  pleased.  Far  otherwise.  When  you,  or  rather 
the  Athenians  of  that  time,  appeared  to  be  dealing 
harshly  with  certain  people,  all  the  rest,  even  such  as 
had  no  complaint  against  Athens,  thought  proper  to 
side  with  the  injured  parties  in  a  war  against  her.  So, 
when  the  Lacedaemonians  became  masters  and  suc- 
ceeded to  your  empire,  on  their  attempting  to  encroach 
and  make  oppressive  innovations,  a  general  war  was 
declared  against  them  even  by  such  as  had  no  cause 
of  complaint.     But  why  mention  other  people?     We 


10^  DEMOSTHENES. 

ourselves  and  the  Lacedaemonians,  although  at  the 
outset  we  could  not  allege  any  mutual  injuries,  thought 
proper  to  make  war  for  the  injustice  that  we  saw  done 
to  our  neighbors.  Yet  all  the  faults  committed  by 
the  Spartans  in  those  thirty  years,  and  by  our  ancestors 
in  the  seventy,  are  less  than  the  wrongs  which  in 
thirteen  incomplete  years,  while  Philip  has  been  upper- 
most, he  has  inflicted  on  the  Greeks.  Nay,  they  are 
scarcely  a  fraction  of  them,  as  I  may  easily  and  briefly 
show.  Olynthus  and  Methone,  and  ApoUonia  and 
thirly-two  cities  on  the  borders  of  Thrace,  I  pass  over 
— all  which  he  has  so  cruelly  destroyed  that;  r.  visitor 
could  scarcely  tell  if  they  were  ever  Inhabited.  And 
of  Phocis,  so  consideiuble  a  people  exterminated,  I  say 
r.othing.  Bat  what  is  the  condition  of  Thessaly?  Has 
he  not  taken  away  her  constitutions  and  her  cities,  and 
established  tetrarchies,  to  parcel  her  out,  not  only  by 
cities,  but  by  provinces,  for  subjcciion?  Are  not  the 
states  of  Euboea  now  governed  by  despots,  and  Eubcea 
is  an  island  near  to  Thebes  and  to  Athens?  Does  he 
not  exprersly  write  in  his  epistles,  "I  am  at  peace  with 
tlvose  who  are  willing  to  obey  me  ?  "  Neither  Greek  nor 
barbaric  land  contains  the  man's  ambition.  And  we, 
the  Greek  community,  seeing  and  hearing  this,  instead 
of  sending  embassies  to  one  another  about  it  and  ex- 
pressing our  indignation,  are  in  such  a  miserable  state, 
so  intrenched  in  our  separate  towns,  that  to  this  day 
we  can  attempt  nothing  that  interest  or  necessity  re- 
quires; we  cannot  combine  for  succor  and  alliance; 
we  look  unconcernedly  on  the  man's  growing  power, 
each  resolving  to  enjoy  the  interval  in  which  another 
is  destroyed,  not  caring  nor  striving  for  the  salvation 
of  Greece.  Whatever  wrong  the  Greeks  sustained 
from  Lacedaemonians  or  from  us,  was  at  least  inflicted 


SPEECHES  AGAINST  PHILIP.  105 

by  a  genuine  Greek  people.  It  might  be  felt  in  the 
same  manner  as  if  a  lawful  son,  born  to  a  large  fortune, 
committed  some  fault  or  error  in  the  management  of 
it.  On  that  ground,  one  would  consider  him  open  to 
censure  and  to  reproach:  yet  it  could  not  be  said  he 
was  an  alien  and  not  an  heir  to  the  property  which 
he  so  dealt  with.  But  if  a  slave  or  a  spurious  child 
wasted  and  spoilt  that  in  which  he  had  no  interest, 
how  much  more  heinous  and  hateful  would  all  have 
pronounced  it! " 

On  the  decay  of  patriotism  and  the  venality  of  public 
men  throughout  Greece,  he  speaks  thus: 

*•  There  must  be  some  cause,  some  good  reason,  why 
the  Greeks  were  so  eager  for  liberty  then,  and  now  are  so 
eager  for  servitude.  There  was  something  in  the  hearts 
of  tho  multitude  then  which  there  is  not  now,  which 
overcame  the  wealth  of  Persia,  and  maintained  the  free- 
dom of  Greece,  and  quailed  not  under  any  battle  by  sea 
or  land,  the  loss  whereof  has  ruined  all  and  thrown  the 
Greek  world  into  confusion.  What  was  this?  No 
subtlety  or  cleverness :  simply  this,  that  whoever  took 
a  bribe  from  the  aspirants  to  power  or  the  corrupters  of 
Greece  was  universally  abhorred.  It  was  a  fearful  thing 
to  be  convicted  of  bribery;  the  severest  punishment  was 
inflicted  on  the  guilty,  and  there  was  no  intercession 
or  pardon.  The  favorable  moments  for  enterprise 
which  fortune  frequently  offers  to  the  careless  against 
the  vigilant,  to -them  that  will  do  nothing  against  those 
that  discharge  their  entire  dut^-,  could  not  be  bought 
from  orators  or  generals;  no  more  could  mutual  con- 
cord, nor  distrust  of  tyrants  and  barbarians,  nor  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  But  ijow  all  such  principles  have 
b3cn  sold  as  in  open  market,  and  principles  imported 
in  exchange  by  which  Greece  is  ruined  and  diseased. 


106  DEMOSTHENES. 

What  are  they?  Envy,  when  a  man  gets  a  bribe; 
laughter,  if  he  confesses  it;  mercy  to  the  convicted; 
hatred  of  those  who  denounce  the  crime, — all  the  usual 
accompaniments  of  corruption.  For  as  to  ships  and 
men,  and  revenues  and  abundance  of  other  material- 
all,  in  fact,  that  may  be  reckoned  as  constituting  national 
strength,  assuredly  the  Greeks  of  our  day  are  more 
fully  and  perfectly  supplied  with  such  advantages  than 
Greeks  of  the  olden  times.  But  thoy  are  all  rendered 
useless,  unavailable,  unprofitable  by  the  agency  of  these 
traffickers." 

This  is  indeed  a  powerful  denunciation  of  a  state  of 
things  which  we  know  to  be  very  possible,  in  which 
the  corruption  of  public  men  is  tieated  as  a  joke, 
and  when  exposed  and  detected,  is  hardly  thought  to 
deserve  reprobation  and  punishment.  If  all  that  was 
best  in  Greece  had  really  so  utterly  died  out,  it  would 
seem  that  Demosthenes  was  wasting  his  breath  in  idle 
declamation.  But  we  may  well  believe  that  he  clung  to 
tha  old  Athenian  ideal,  and  could  not  bring  himself  to 
despair  of  his  country.  And  it  is  certain  that  this  and 
the  preceding  speech  produced  an  effect,  and  Athens 
made  efforts  which  were  temporarily  successful.  "The 
•work  of  saving  Greece,"  he  told  them  before  he  sat 
down,  "belongs  to  you;  this  privilege  your  ancestors 
bequeathed  to  you  as  the  prize  of  many  perilous  exer- 
tions." 

As  one  might  expect,  there  were  those  who  sought 
to  persuade  the  Athenians  that  Philip's  power  for 
aggression  had  been  greatly  exaggerated,  and  that  he 
was  by  no  means  so  formidable  as  Sparta  had  once 
been,  when  she  led  the  Peloponnesian  confederacy. 
Demosthenes  points  out  that  Philip  had  introduced 
what  was  really  a  new  method  of  warfare.    Athens 


SPEECHES  A  GAINST  PHILIP.  107 

and  Sparta,  ia  the  height  of  their  power,  had  only  been 
able  to  command  a  citizen  militia  from  the  states  in 
league  with  them.  Such  a  force  was  prepared  only  for 
a  summer  campaign,  and  could  not  always  follow  up 
its  blows  effectively.  Philip,  on  the  other  hand,  could 
take  the  field  ia  winter  as  well  as  in  summer.  His 
troops  were  never  disbanded,  and  they  w^ere  under  his 
sole  direction.  He  was,  in  fact,  to  the  Greeks  what 
Napoleon  was  to  the  Austrians.  An  able  and  restless 
despot,  at  the  head  of  a  well-trained  standing  army, 
will  often,  for  a  time  at  least,  have  a  decided  advantage 
in  war  over  a  free  and  constitutional  state. 

The  next  year,  340  b.c,  events  occurred  which  com- 
pletely justified  the  warnings  of  Demosthenes.  Philip 
attempted  the  conquest  of  the  cities  on  the  Propontis, 
Perinthus  and  Byzantium.  He  was  foiled  by  prompt 
intervention  from  Athens,  There  was  for  a  brief  space 
a  doubt  whether  Byzantium  would  accept  Athenian 
aid,  so  thoroughly  had  the  city  become  estranged  from 
Athens  in  consequence  of  the  Social  War.  Demos- 
thenes went  thither  at  the  head  of  an  embassy,  and  the 
result  was,  that  an  alliance  was  concluded.  Shortly 
afterwards,  the  conscientious  and  much-respected 
Phocion,  though  he  differed  politically  from  Demos- 
thenes, sailed  thither  with  a  powerful  armament  and  a 
force  of  Athenian  citizens.  Through  the  influence  of 
Leon,  one  of  the  leading  citizens  of  Byzantium,  who 
had  been  Phocion's  fellow-student  at  Athens  in  the 
Academy,  they  were  admitted  into  the  city,  and  charmed 
the  Byzantines  by  their  quiet  and  admirable  behavior. 
Succors  also  arrived  from  some  of  the  islands  of  the 
2Egean — from  Cos,  Chios,  Rhodes.  Byzantium  was 
now  all  but  impregnable,  and  Philip  was  obliged  to 
abandon  the  siege  both  of  it  and  of  Perinthus.    Even 


108  DEMOSTHENES. 

his  own  territory  was  invaded  by  Phocion,  and  many 
of  the  Macedonian  cruisers  were  captured.  For  Philip 
it  was  a  year  of  reverses,  as  for  Athens  it  was  one  of 
success  and  glory.  The  two  cities  on  the  Propontis 
decreed  her  a  vote  of  thanks,  and  displayed  their 
gratitude  by  erecting  three  colossal  statues,  represent- 
ing Athens  receiving  a  wreath  at  their  hands  in  testi- 
mony of  their  deliverance.  Demosthenes,  too,  had  his 
reward.  No  one  could  question  that  to  his  counsels 
and  energy  they  owed  in  great  measure  the  preservation 
of  the  Chersonese  and  their  supremacy  at  sea.  Corn 
cheap  and  abundant  was  for  the  present  assured  to 
them.  The  Athenian  people  were  in  a  pleased  and 
grateful  mood,  and  the  Assembly  passed  a  vote  of 
thanks  to  Demosthenes,  which  none  of  his  many 
political  enemies  dared  to  oppose. 


CHAPTEE    XL 

CHJERONEIA— FALL  OF  GKEECHJ. 

We  must  now  hurry  on  to  the  decisive  catastrophe 
which  sealed  the  fate  of  Greece  and  of  its  political 
independence.  Its  glory  had  been  to  have  been  rep- 
resented  by  an  aggregate  of  free  states,  of  which 
Athens  was  immeasurably  the  first  in  culture  and 
civiiization.  Its  weakness  and  curse  had  been  per- 
petual and  all  but  irremediable  rivalries  and  jealousies, 
which  went  far  to  neutralize  its  collective  strength 
in  the  face  of  a  real  peril.  It  was  now  on  the  eve 
of  a  revolution  which  the  Greek  mind,  in  spite  of 
many  a  warning  from  Demosthenes,  had  never  been 
able  to  bring  itself  to  comtemplate  as  possible.  He  had 
done  his  best,  as  we  have  seen,  to  retard  it  amid  end- 
less discouragements,  and  to  the  last  we  shall  find  him 
faithful  to  the  cause  of  which  he  never  once  seems  to 
have  allowed  himself  to  despair.  In  the  train  of  events 
which  culminated  in  Chaeroneia  we  find  him  bearing  a 
conspicuous  and  honorable  part. 

Philip's  career,  as  we  have  just  seen,  had  been 
temporarily  checked;  and  at  the  close  of  the  year  340 
B.C.  Athens  might  almost  congratulate  herself  on  all 
danger  having  passed  away.  In  the  spring  of  339  b.  c. 
Ibe  King  met  with  another  disaster.     He  had  plunged 


110  DEMOSTHENES. 

into  the  wilds  of  Scythia,  north  of  the  Danube,  and  had 
carried  off  a  vast  booty  of  flocks  and  herds  from  the 
barbarous  people;  but  on  his  return  through  Thrace  he 
was  attacked  by  the  Triballi,  one  of  the  fiercest  and 
most  warlike  of  the  tribes  of  that  dangerous  region. 
We  know  what  it  is  for  a  regular  and  well-equipped 
army  to  have  to  march  through  an  intricate  and  hostile 
country.  The  King  of  Macedon,  encumbered  as  he 
"was  with  spoil,  was  taken  at  a  disadvantage,  and  if 
not  actually  defeated,  he  was  at  least  worsted,  lost  his 
plunder,  and  was  himself  badly  wounded.  Thus  the 
year  339  b.c.  seemed  one  of  good  omen  fur  Athens  and 
for  Greece.  And  thanks  to  the  vigorous  efforts  of 
Demosthenes  in  the  way  of  naval  reform,  the  Athenian 
fleet  was  now  supreme  in  the  JEgean. 

Meanwhile  a  new  sacred  war  in  behalf  of  the  god 
and  temple  of  Delphi  was  unfortunately  breaking  out. 
It  arose  out  of  incidents  which  may  seem  to  us  com- 
paratively trifling.  An  Amphictyonic  Council  had 
assembled  at  Delphi  in  the  autumn  of  340  b.c,  and 
Athens  was  represented  by  JEschines.  The  fruitful 
plain  of  Crisa,  stretching  inland  from  the  Gulf  of 
Corinth  to  the  town  of  Amphissa,  under  the  mountains 
of  Parnassus,  was  the  consecrated  possession  of  the 
Delphic  god.  It  was  holy  ground,  and  to' till  or  to 
plant. it  had  been  forbidden  with  a  tremendous  curse. 
Part  of  it,  however,  adjacent  to  the  town  and  port  of 
Cirrha,  had,  almost  with  the  sanction  of  Greek  opinion, 
been  occupied  and  brought  into  cultivation  for  a  long 
period  by  the  Locrians.  Between  them  and  the 
Phocians  there  had  been  a  long-standing  feud,  which 
reached  a  climax  in  the  recent  Sacred  War.  The  Loc- 
rians in  that  war  had  sided  with  Philip  and  the  Thebans 
against  their  sacrilegious   neighbors.      Conseauently, 


CE^RONEIA—FALL  OF  GREECE.        m 

after  the  destruction  of  Phocis,  they  had  a  sore  feeling 
towards  athens  as  the  ally  of  the  Phocians.  One  ot 
their  deputies,  on  the  occasion  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
rudely  gave  expression  to  this  feeling,  and  went  so  far 
as  to  revile  the  Athenians,  and  to  imply  that  an  alliance 
with  such  people  was  in  itself  equivalent  to  the  guilt 
of  sacrilege.  Possibly  the  man  may  have  wished  to 
curry  favor  with  the  Thebans,  to  whose  disgust  some 
golden  shields  had  just  been  set  up  by  the  Athenians 
in  a  new  chapel  at  Delphi,  with  an  inscription  com- 
memorating the  victory  of  Athens  over  Persia  and 
Thebes  at  Platae  a  century  and  a  half  ago.  This 
small  incident  was  dwelt  upon  by  the  Locriau  orator  in 
violent  and  intemperate  language.  "Do  not,"  said  he, 
"  permit  the  name  of  the  Athenian  people  to  be  pro- 
nounced among  you  at  this  holy  season.  Turn  them 
out  of  the  sacred  ground  like  men  under  a  curse." 

^schines,  the  Athenian  representative  (he  describes 
the  affair  himself  in  his  great  speech  against  Ctesiphon, 
or,  ^ye  may  say,  against  Demosthenes),  savagely  re- 
torted. He  pointed  to  the  plain  of  Crisa,  visible  from 
the  spot  where  they  were  assembled.  "You  see,"  he 
said,  "that  plain  cultivated  by  the  Locrians,  of  Am- 
phissa,  covered  with  their  farm-buildiqgs.  You  have 
under  your  eyes  the  port  of  Cirrha,  consecrated  b}'- 
your  forefathers'  oath,  now  occupied  and  fortified." 
Then  he  caused  the  ancient  oracle,  the  oath  with  its 
dreadful  curse,  to  be  read  out  before  the  Council. 
"Here  am  I,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "ready  to  defend 
the  property  of  the  god  according  to  your  forefathers' 
oath.  I  stand  prepared  to  clear  my  own  city  of  her 
obligations.  Do  you  take  counsel  for  yourselves. 
You  are  here  to  pray  for  blessings  to  the  gods,  publicly 
and  individually.      Where  will  you  find  voice  or  heart 


112  DEMOSTHENES. 

or  courage  to  offer  such  a  prayer  if  you  let  these  ac- 
cursed Locrians  of  Amphissa  remain  unpunished?" 

The  appeal  of  JSschines  produced  an  instantaneous 
effect.  The  excitement  was  prodigious ;  and  the  Coun- 
cil in  a  moment  of  fury  passed  a  resolution  that  on  the 
morrow  all  the  population  of  Delphi  were  to  assemble 
with  spades  and  pickaxes,  and  sweep  away  from  the 
sacred  plain  every  trace  of  the  impious  tillage  and 
cultivation.  Next  day  this  mad  proposal  was  actually 
carried  into  effect.  The  furious  mob  rushed  across  the 
plain  into  the  town  of  Cirrha,  and  pillaged  and  fired 
the  place.  On  their  return,  however,  they  were  met 
by  the  Locrians  of  Amphissa  with  an  armed  force,  and 
obliged  to  take  refuge  in  Delphi.  There  was  no  blood- 
shed, even  under  these  circumstances  of  provocation, 
as  the  aggrieved  owners  of  the  destroyed  poperty  were 
restrained  by  a  sentiment  of  reverence  for  the  Amphic- 
tyouic  Council.  Here  is,  indeed,  a  striking  evidence 
of  the  respect  felt  for  the  traditions  of  the  god  of 
Delphi  and  his  ancient  temple,  the  centre  of  the 
religious  life  of  Greece.  Again,  on  the  following  day, 
the  Council  met,  and  after  warm  praise  had  been 
bestowed  on  Athens  as  the  avenger  of  Apollo's  rights, 
the  people  of  *  Amphissa  were  denounced  as  having 
incurred  the  gilt  of  sacrilege;  and  it  was  finally 
decided  that  the  Amphictyonic  deputies  should  shortly 
assemble  at  Thermopylae  to  consider  how  they  were  to 
be  punished. 

A  new  sacred  war  was  thus  in  effect  begun  six  years 
after  the  dis:istrous  termination  of  the  previous  war  in 
346  B.  c.  That  had  ended  in  the  destruction  of  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Gre.'k  community;  this  was  to  end  in  the 
ruin  and  fall  of  Greece.  The  danger  was  not  at  once 
perceived  at  Athens,      "We  c.innot   wonder   at   this. 


Cn^EOSETA.—FALL  OF  &REEGE.      113 

jEschines'  vindication  of  his  countrymen  at  the  Coun- 
cil' might  well  seem  spirited  and  patriotic.  Athens, 
through  him,  had  stood  forward  as  the  champion  of 
the  god  of  Delphi.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  argue  that 
those  who  took  a  different  view,  and  regretted  the  rash 
act  to  which  the  Amphictyons  had  been  prompted  by 
his  oratory,  were  little  better  than  the  paid  agents  of 
those  sacrilegious  Locrians,  who  had  allowed  one  of 
their  speakers  openly  to  insult  Athens.  Demosthenes, 
however — so  he  tells  us — at  once  declared  in  the  As- 
sembly, *  *  You  are  bringing  war  into  Attica,  ^schines — 
an  Amphictyonic  war."  The  popular  sentiment  at  the 
time  was  in  favor  of  ^schines,  and  this  his  political 
rival  must  have  known  and  felt.  Still,  Demosthenes 
was  able — a  proof  this  of  the  high  respect  in  which  he 
was  held — to  persuade  the  people  not  to  send  any 
deputies  to  the  special  congress  at  Thermopylce,  which 
was  to  deliberate  on  the  punishment  of  the  Locrians. 
Thebes,  too,  allowed  herself  to  be  unrepresented.  War 
was  decided  on;  the  Locrian  territory  was  invaded, 
and  a  fine  imposed  on  the  Locrians.  the  payment  of 
which,  however,  the  army  was  not  sufficiently  power- 
ful to  compel. 

The  congress  of  which  we  have  just  spoken  was  not 
the  regular  Amphictyonic  meeting.  This  was  held  in 
the  autumn  of  339  B.C.  Philip  by  that  time  had 
returned  to  his  kingdom.  The  meeting  was  now  at 
Delphi;  and  Athens,  as  might  be  expected,  took  part 
in  it,  ^schines  again  was  one  of  her  representatives. 
It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  fatal  step  was  taken 
of  invoking  the  aid  of  Philip.  It  is  not  very  difficult 
to  understand  how  such  a  vote  was  carried.  Macedon 
itself  was  a  member  of  the  Council;  and  so,  too,  were 
several  states  like  Thessaly  and  Phthiotis,  which  now 


114  DEMOSTHENES. 

were  simply  Macedonian  dependencies,  ^schines,  it 
may  be  from  really  corrupt  motives,  supported  the 
vote.  Accordingly  Philip  was  elected  general  of  the 
Amphictyonic  army ;  and  a  request  was  forwarded  to 
him  that  "  he  would  march  to  the  aid  of  Apollo  and 
the  xlmphictyons,  and  not  suffer  the  rights  of  the  god 
to  be  invaded  by  the  impious  Locrians  of  Amphissa." 

The  die  was  now  cast.  The  peril  to  Greece  might 
possibly  even  yet  have  been  warded  off;  but  it  was 
great  and  imminent.  And  Thebes  and  Athens,  on 
whom  all  now  depended,  wore  still  notoriously  un- 
reconciled. Philip,  of  course,  instantly  accepted  the 
Council's  invitation.  He  would  enter  Greece  as  the 
representative  of  a  holy  cause,  as  well  as  the  head  of  a 
very  powerful  army.  From  Thermopylae  he  marched 
straight  through  Phocis  to  Elateia,  the  chief  Phocian 
town  and  the  key  to  southern  Greece.  It  was  not  sixty 
miles  from  the  Athenian  frontier.  Here  he  halted  and 
began  to  establish  a  regular  camp.  This  was  in  itself 
alarming.  His  next  step  was  to  send  a  message  to 
Thebes  inviting  the  co-operation  of  the  Thebans  in  an 
attack  on  Attica. 

In  a  graphic  passage  in  the  most  famous  of  his 
speeches,  Demosthenes  describes  the  impression  made 
at  Athens  by  the  news  that  Philip  was  at  Elateia. 

* '  It  was  evening, "  he  says, ' '  when  a  messenger  arrived 
with  tidings  for  the  Presidents  tliat  Elateia  was  taken. 
They  rose  instantly  from  the  public  supper-table;  some 
drove  the  people  from  the  stalls  in  the  Forum,  and  set 
fire  to  the  wicker-work  in  order  to  clear  the  space; 
others  sent  for  the  generals,  and  called  the  trumpeter. 
The  whole  city  was  in  commotion.  Next  morning,  at 
break  of  day,  the  Presidents  convoked  the  Senate  in 
the  Senate  House,  and  you  repaired  to  the  Assembly, 


CH^RONEIA—FALL  OF  GREECE.       115 

and  before  the  Senate  could  enter  upon  business,  or 
draw  up  the  decree  to  be  submitted  to  you,  all  the 
people  had  taken  their  seats  in  the  Pnyx.  When  the 
Senate  had  entered— when  the  Presidents  had  commu- 
nicated the  intelligence  which  had  been  brought  to 
them — when  the  messenger  had  been  introduced,  and 
related  his  tidings, — the  herald  made  proclamation, 
*  Who  desires  to  speak? '  But  no  one  came  forward. 
Again  and  again  did  the  herald  repeat  the  proclama- 
tion; our  country's  voice  called  out  for  a  man  to  speak 
and  save  her;  for  the  voice  of  the  herald  raised  at  the 
law's  command  should  be  regarded  as  the  voice  of  our 
common  country.  Still  not  a  man  came  forward." 
In  this  crisis  Demosthenes  gave  his  counsel.  It  was 
to  the  following  effect: 

"I  said,"  he  tells  us,  "that  the  dismay  of  those 
who  supposed  that  Philip  could  still  count  on  the 
Thebans  must  proceed  from  an  ignorance  of  the  rea 
state  of  the  case.  If  that  were  so,  it  would  not 
be  at  Elateia — it  would  be  on  our  own  frontier— 
that  we  should  hear  of  Philip.  That  he  had  come  to 
make  things  ready  for  him  in  Thebes  I  knew  well. 
But  mark,  I  said,  how  th-i  matter  stands.  Every 
man  in  Thebes  whom  money  can  buy,  every  man 
whom  flattery  can  gain,  has  long  ago  been  secured. 
But  he  is  totally  unable  to  prevail  upon  those  who 
have  withstood  him  from  the  bei^inning,  and  who  are 
opposing  him  still.  What  then  has  brought  Philip  to 
Elaieia?  He  hopes,  by  a  military  demonstration  in 
your  neighberhood,  and  by  bringiug  up  his  army,  to 
raise  the  courage  and  confidence  of  his  friends,  and  to 
strike  terror  into  his  enemies,  so  that  they  may  be 
frightened  or  coerced  into  surrendering  what  hitherto 
they  had  been  unwilling  to  concede.     If,  then,  I  said, 


116  DEMOSTHENES, 

we  choose  at  this  crisis  to  remember  every  ill  turn 
which  the  Thebans  have  done  us,  and  to  distrust  them 
and  treat  them  as  enemies,  in  the  first  place  we  shall 
be  doing  the  very  thing  which  Philip  most  desires ;  and 
next,  I  fear  that,  his  present  adversaries  embracing  his 
cause,  they  will  all  fall  on  Attica  together.  If  you  will 
be  advised  by  me,  and  regard  what  I  am  about  to  say 
as  matter  for  reflection  rather  than  for  disputation,  I 
believe  that  my  counsel  will  obtain  your  approbation, 
and  be  the  means  of  averting  the  peril  which  now 
threatens  the  State.  What,  then,  do  I  advise?  First, 
shake  off  this  panic — or  rather  change  the  direction  of 
your  fears  from  yourselves  to  the  Thebans,  for  they 
are  far  nearer  ruin  than  ourselves.  The  danger  is  theirs 
before  it  is  ours.  Next,  let  all  citizens  of  military  age 
and  all  your  cavalry  march  to  Eleusis,  and  show  your- 
selves to  the  world  in  arms,  that  the  Thebans  who  are 
on  your  side  may  be  as  bold  as  their  adversaries,  and 
speak  out  in  the  cause  of  right,  with  the  assurance 
that,  if  there  is  at  Elateia  a  force  at  hand  to  support 
the  party  who  have  sold  their  country  to  Philip,  your 
forces  are  no  less  at  the  disposal  of  those  who  would 
fight  for  freedom,  and  ready  to  succor  them  in  case 
of  attack.  Make  no  conditions  with  the  Thebans.  It 
would  be  unworthy  on  such  an  occasion.  Simply  de- 
clare your  readiness  to  saccor  them,  on  the  assump- 
tion that  their  peril  is  imminent,  and  that  you  are  in  a 
better  position  than  they  to  forecast  the  future.  If 
they  accept  our  offer  and  adopt  our  views,  we  shall 
have  attained  our  object,  and  pursued  a  policy  worthy 
of  our  country.  If  anything  should  mar  the  project, 
they  will  have  only  themselves  to  blame,  and  we  shall 
have  nothing  to  blush  for  in  our  part  of  the  transac- 
tion," 


CH^RONEIA-FALL  OF  QBEEGE.  II7 

Such  was  the  counsel  of  Demosthenes  in  this  great 
crisis.  It  was  instantly  adopted  by  the  Assembly 
without  a  dissentient  voice.  The  matter  did  not  stop 
here.  "Not  only  did  I  make  a  speech,"  Demosthenes 
tells  us,  "  but  I  proposed  a  decree.  JJTot  only  did  I 
propose  the  decree,  but  I  went  upon  the  emba^^sy.  Not 
only  went  I  on  the  embassy,  but  I  prevailed  on  the 
Thebans."  At  Thebes  the  orator  had  to  confront  the 
envoys  of  Phtlip,  backed  up  by  the  Philippizing  party 
and  by  the  old  Theban  animosity  towards  Athens. 
Each  embassy  was  heard,  according  to  Greek  custom, 
before  the  Theban  Assembly.  Philip  had  eloquent 
advocates  who  suggested  plausible  reasons  why  he 
should  be  allowed  to  march  through  Boeotia  and  to 
humble  the  old  enemy  of  Thebes.  Unfortunately,  we 
have  not  the  reply  of  Demosthenes.  We  know,  how- 
ever, from  the  historian  of  the  time,  Theopompus,  that 
he  rose  to  the  occasion,  and  convinced  the  wavering 
Thebans,  by  an  impressive  appeal  to  every  Greek  and 
patriotic  sentiment,  that  it  was  their  duty  and  interest 
to  accept  the  offered  alliance.  It  was  a  signal  triumph 
— one,  too,  achieved  under  extreme  difHcullies. 

It  must,  indeed,  have  been  a  proud  moment  for  De- 
mosthenes when  he  saw  his  country's  army  march 
across  the  Attic  frontier  and  enter  Boeotia  at  the 
Theban  invitation.  All  distrust  and  jealousy  had  now 
passed  away;  and  the  two  states,  between  whom  there 
had  been  long  and  bitter  rivalry,  had  at  last  made  up 
their  mind  to  co-operate  in  a  common  cause.  As  it 
had  been  at  Byzantium,  so  was  it  now  at  Thebes.  The 
Athenian  soldiers  received  a  hearty  welcome,  and  were 
hospitably  entertained  in  the  houses  of  the  city. 

*'  With  such  cordiality,"  says  Demosthenes  in  his 
speech  on  the  crown,  "  did  they  welcome  you,  that  while 


118  DEM08THEJSE8. 

their  own  infantry  and  cavalry  were  quartered  outside 
the  walls,  they  received  your  army  within  their  city  and 
their  homes,  among  their  wives  and  all  that  they  held 
most  precious.  On  that  day  the  Thebans  gave  you,  in 
the  face  of  all  mankind,  three  of  the  highest  testimonials 
— the  first  of  your  valor,  the  second  of  your  justice, 
aud  the  third  of  your  good  conduct.  For  in  choosing 
to  fight  with  you  rather  than  against  you,  they  judged 
that  you  were  better  soldiers,  and  engaged  in  a  better 
cause  than  Philip;  and  by  intrusting  to  you  that 
which  they  in  common  with  all  mankind  regard  with 
the  most  jealous  watchfulness,  their  children  and  their 
wives,  they  manifested  their  confidence  in  your  good 
conduct.  The  result  showed  that  they  were  well  war- 
ranted in  their  trust;  for  after  the  army  entered  their 
city,  not  a  single  complaint,  well  or  ill  founded,  was 
made  against  you,  so  orderly  was  your  behavior.  And 
whenyour  soldiers  stood  side  by  side  with  their  hosts 
in  two  successive  engagements,  their  disipline,  their 
equipments,  their  courage,  were  such  as  not  only  to 
challenge  criticism,  but  to  command  admiration." 

Two  slight  successes,  indeed,  were  won  by  the  united 
armies  of  Thebes  and  Athens.  Of  the  campaign  we 
have  no  detailed  narrative,  and  of  the  final  battle  we 
have  but  an  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory  description. 
It  would  have  been  most  interesting  to  have  had  such 
an  account  of  it  as  Xenophon  has  given  us  of  Leuctra 
and  Mantineia.  It  was  fought  near  Chaeroneia,  dose 
to  the  borders  of  Phocis, — a  town  of  little  importance, 
but  memorable  from  its  historical  associations.  More 
than  two  centuries  afterwards,  a  great  victory  was  won 
there  by  Sulla  over  an  army  of  Mithridates.  It  wa.3 
too,  the  birthplace  of  Plutarch,  and  to  it  he  retired 
from  Rome  in  his  old  age.     On  this  occasion  it  would 


CH^BONEIA—FALL  OF  GREECE.         119 

seem  that  as  to  numbers  the  forces  were  evenly 
matched.  But  the  Greek  army  was  without  a  general 
of  any  marked  ability.  Phocion,  by  far  the  best 
Athenian  officer,  was  absent  with  the  fleet  in  the 
^geari.  A  commander  of  the  first  order — a  man,  for 
example,  of  the  calibre  of  Epameinondas— might  bave 
turned  the  scale,  and  no  doubt  would  have  done  so 
had  there  been  a  powerful  contingent  from  Sparta  and 
the  Peloponnese.  United  Greece,  it  is  probable,  could 
even  yet  have  crushed  Philip.  As  it  w^as,  all  may  be 
said  to  have  depended  on  Athens  and  Thebes,  though 
a  few  other  States  furnished  some  soldiers.  The  Mace- 
donian army  was  both  skillfully  commanded,  and  was 
very  formidable  in  itself.  It  was  led  by  Philip  and 
by  his  young  son  Alexander;  and  he  it  was,  it  appears, 
to  whom  the  victory  was  mainly  due.  He  was  opposed 
to  the  Theban  phalanx — the  Sacred  band,  as  it  was  called 
— which  fell  fighting  to  a  man.  It  is  certain  that  the 
battle  was  obstinately  contested,  and  almost  equally 
certain  that  it  was  decided  by  superiority  of  general- 
ship. The  Athenians,  after  their  wont,  dashed  upon 
the  enemy  with  furious  impetuosity;  but  a  citizen 
militia,  however  brave  and  enthusiastic,  unless  they 
were  victorious  at  the  first  onset,  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  stand  long  against  such  troops  as 
Philip's  trained  veterans.  They  did,  according  to  one 
account,  put  the  enemy  to  flight,  and  their  general 
exclaimed,  "  Let  us  pursue  them  even  to  Macedonia," 
But  the  end  was  complete  defeat  for  the  Greek  army, 
and  the  year  338  b.c.  witnessed  the  fall  of  Greek  in- 
dependence. 

To  Thebes  the  result  was  immediate  ruin.  Its  cita« 
del  was  at  once  occupied  by  a  Macedonian  garrison, 
and  its  government   put  under  Macedonian  control. 


120  DEMOSTHENES. 

Athens,  1,000  of  whose  citizens  had  fallen,  and  2,000 
been  taken  prisoners,  was  in  an  agony  of  distress;  but 
she  did  not  allow  herself  to  despair.  Isocrates,  still 
alive  in  his  99th  year,  though  he  had  been  politically 
opposed  to  Demosthenes  and  had  cherished  the  idea  of 
a  united  Greece  under  the  leadership  of  the  King  of 
Macedon,  was  heart-broken,  and  refused  to  live  any 
longer.     He  was  a  true  patriot;  and 

"  That  dishonest  victory 
At  Chaeroneia  fatal  to  liberty 
Bailed,  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent." 

Demosthenes  had  fought  in  his  countrymen's  ranks, 
and  had  fled  with  the  rest;  but  though  his  enemies 
taunted  him  with  cowardice,  he  had  the  honor  of  pro- 
nouncing the  funeral  panegyric  over  the  fallen.  His 
counsels  had  been  followed;  the  result  had  been  dis- 
astrous; yet  he  still  evidently  retained  the  confidence 
and  esteem  of  the  people.  Athens  recovered  her  cap- 
tured citizens  without  ransom,  for  the  conqueror  chose 
to  be  generous;  but  the  cause  for  which  she  had 
fought  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  Demosthenes  must 
have  felt  after  Chaeroneia  as  Pitt  felt  after  Austerlitz 
when  he  closed  the  map  of  Europe.  His  efforts  had 
been  rewarded  with  the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen, 
but  they  had  not  been  rewarded  with  success. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CONTEST  BETWEEN  DEMOSTHENES  AND  JSSCHINES. 

Philip  was  now  the  acknowledged  head  of  the  Greek 
world.  Phocion,  Athens'  best  soldier,  as  well  as  a  highly 
honorable  citizen,  told  the  Athenians  that  they  must 
acquiesce  in  this  result.  Demosthenes  had  not  a  word 
left  to  say  on  foreign  policy.  The  subject  was,  in  fact, 
closed.  He  was  continually  and  virulently  attacked 
by  his  political  opponents,  bi^vhewas  too  strong  for 
them.  He  spoke  the  funeral  eulogy  at  the  obsequies 
of  the  slain  in  the  great  battle — an  honor  to  which  he 
was  chosen  in  preference  to  ^schines,  as  well  as  to 
Demades,  who  had  negotiated  the  peace.  He  held, 
too,  more  than  one  important  oflQce.  He  was  treasurer 
of  the  Theoric  fund,  which  provided  Athens  with  her 
grand  dramatic  entertainments;  and  in  this  capacity  he 
had  a  considerable  control  over  the  finances  generally. 
He  was  also  superintendent  of  the  city  walls  and  fortifli- 
cations.  He  must  thus  have  had  the  character  of  an 
able  and  upright  man  of  business.  And  he  continued 
to  follow  the  profession  of  the  bar,  and  found  abundant 
employment. 

In  336  B.C.  Philip  was  assassinated.  It  seems  that 
Demosthenes,  though  at  the  time  he  was  mourning  the 
death  of  an  only  daughter,  showed  an  excessive  joy  by 
m 


122  DEMOSTHENES. 

appearing  in  public  in  a  white  dress  with  a  garland  on 
his  head,  and  performing  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  thanks- 
giving. Could  he  have  indulged  in  the  dream  that  all 
was  now  to  be  reversed,  and  Greece  was  again  to  be 
free?  Macedon,  no  doubt,  with  its  sudden  growth  of 
power,  might  have  collapsed,  had  Philip's  son  and  suc- 
cessor been  an  imbecile.  And  it  appears  that  Demos- 
thenes thought  meanly  of  the  young  Alexander.  He 
compared  him  to  Margites,  the  hero  of  a  comic  poem 
which  tradition  attributed  to  Homer.  Margites  was  a 
man  who  "knew  many  things  but  knew  them  all 
badly;"  he  was  a  sort  of  "  Jack  of  all  trades  and  master 
of  none."  Alexander  was  famous  for  the  variety  of  his 
studies  and  pursuits;  and  it  was  this,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed, which  gave  point  to  the  comparison.  Demos- 
thenes' idea  of  him  was,  that  he  was  a  studious, 
bookish  young  man,  of  whom  the  world  would  never 
hear  much.  The  fact  that  he  was  only  twenty 
years  of  age  at  the  time  of  his  father's  death  may 
have  reasonably  encouraged  Demosthenes  to  believe 
that  Greece  had  some  chance  of  thiowing  off  the 
yoke  imposed  on  her  by  her  defeat  at  Chaeioneia.  He 
did  not  think  it  wrong  to  correspond  with  Persia, 
and  to  avail  himself  of  Persian  gold,  with  the  view 
of  frustrating  Philip's  designs  on  Asia.  "We  can 
hardly  censure  him  for  this,  when  we  remember  that 
it  was  done  for' the  patriotic  purpose  of  freeing  Greece 
from  its  present  position  of  a  Macedonian  dependency. 
If  he  used  questionable  means,  he  at  least  had  the 
merit  of  standing  by  the  old  cause.  But,  of  course,  it 
Was  easy  for  his  enemies  to  represent  his  conduct  in  an 
odious  light. 

Three  years  after  Chaeroneia,  Alexander,  after  a  suc- 
cessful expedition  into  Thrace,  and  a  victory  over  the 


DEMOSTEEN^ES  AND  ^SGHINES..        123 

barbarous  and  warlike  GetSB  on  the  further  bank  of 
the  Danube,  hurried  with  marvelous  rapidity  south- 
wards to  crush  a  movement  of  revolt  in  Tliebes.  There 
was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  Macedonian  garrison  in  the  city. 
There  was,  too,  a  powerful  political  party  which  urged 
prompt  submission.  Alexander  himself  was  particu- 
larly anxious  not  to  drive  matters  to  extremities.  But 
the  party  which  had  instigated  the  movement  knew 
that  they  could  not  hope  for  mercy;  and,  by  appealing 
to  the  cause  of  Greek  freedom,  persuaded  the  people  to 
reject  all  offers  of  peace.  The  unhappy  city  was  cap- 
tured by  assault,  and  every  house  but  that  of  the  poet 
Pindar  and  those  of  his  descendants  was  razed  to  the 
ground. 

\    *'  The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bade  spare 
\      The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground. " 

It  was  a  terrible  doom,  but  it  was  approved  by  the 
towns  of  Boeotia;  and  but  for  the  brief  grandeur  to 
which  Thebes  rose  under  Epameinocdas,  and  her  share 
in  the  battle  of  Chseroneia,  we  may  almost  say  it  was 
deserved.  She'had  been  a  traitor  to  the  common  cause 
in  the  great  struggle  with  Persia;  and  afterwards,  with 
a  peculiar  baseness,  she  had  urged  Sparta  to  slaughter, 
in  cold  blood,  the  brave  Plataeans,  whose  only  crime 
was,  that  they  had  sided  with  Athens  in  the  Pelopon- 
nesian  War.  Thebes  was  now  blotted  out  of  existence. 
Again  Athens  trembled.  Alexander,  there  was  reason 
to  believe,  was  magnanimous;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
say  how  he  might  deal  witli  a  city  which  had  been  so 
persistently  hostile  to  his  father.  At  the  suggestion  of 
Demades,  an  embassy  of  congratulation  was  sent  to 
him.     The  people  were  to  express  their  joy  not  only  on 


124  DEMOSTHENES, 

liis  safe  return  from  the  Danube,  but  on  the  extinction 
of  Thebes.  It  was  as  Dr.  Thirlwall  happily  calls  it, 
* '  impudent  obsequiousness. "  Alexander's  answer  was 
a  demand  for  the  surrender  of  the  nine  chief  anti- 
Macedonian  orators, — Demosthenes,  of  course  included. 
But  the  demand  was  waived,  chiefly,  it  seems,  through 
the  opportune  intervention  of  Phocion,  whom  Alex- 
ander highly  respected. 

The  next  year  he  crossed  the  Hellespont  into  Asia. 
Four  years  from  that  time  sufficed  for  the  overthrow 
of  the  Persian  empire.  Darius,  the  last  king  of  Persia 
was  murdered  in  330  b.  c.  That  same  year  witnessed 
an  abortive  attempt  in  Greece  against  Macedonian 
supremacy.  It  was  bravely  led  by  a  king  of  Sparta, 
who  fell  in  a  hard  fought  battle  near  Megalopolis  with 
Antipater,  to  whom  Alexander  had  intrusted  his  king- 
dom during  his  absence.  Greece  could  now  no  longer 
even  dream  of  independence.  Anything  like  an  anti- 
Macedonian  policy  would  be  preposterous;  and  there 
was  thus  an  opportunity  at  Athens  of  attempting  to 
rouse  popular  feeling  against  any  statesman  who  had 
advocated  that  policy,  the  end  of  which  had  been  so 
fatal  to  Greece. 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  ^schines 
made  a  great  effort  to  crush  his  old  rival.  It  had  been 
proposed  by  Ctesiphon,  in  the  year  after  Chaeroneia, 
that  a  public  tcslimonial  to  the  worth  of  Demosthenes 
should  be  given  him  in  the  form  of  a  golden  crown; 
and  that  the  honor  should  be  proclaimed  on  the 
occasion  of  one  of  those  great  dramatic  festivals,  when 
the  city  was  crowded  with  visitors  from  every  part 
of  Greece.  The  proposal  had  been  approved  by  the 
Athenian  Senate,  but  it  had  yet  to  be  submitted  to  the 
popular  assembly,      ^schines  at  the  time  denounced 


DEMOSTHENES  AND  ^SCIIINES.       123 

it  as  unconstitutional,  and  opposed  it  by  one  of  the 
recognized  modes  of  legal  procedure.  Technically, 
indeed,  the  motion  of  Ctcsiphon  "was  illegal.  Demos- 
thenes, as  we  have  stated,  was  holding  two  offices;  he 
was  superintendent  of  fortifications  and  treasurer  of 
tlie  Theoric  fund.  It  was  contrary  to  Athenian  law 
to  bestow  the  honor  of  a  crown  on  an  officer  before 
his  accounts  had  been  audited;  it  was  also  forbidden 
that  such  an  honor  should  be  proclaimed  anywhere 
else  than  in  the  Pnyx,  the  regular  place  of  the  people's 
assembly.  According  to  the  motion  of  the  proposer, 
it  would  haye  been  proclaimed  in  the  theatre,  ^s- 
chines  could,  therefore,  argue  that  it  was  in  two  points 
illegal.  But  he  wished  to  win  a  decisive  victory ;  and 
he  accordingly  waited  for  some  years,  and  finally 
rested  his  case  on  the  argument  that  Demosthenes,  as 
a  public  man,  was  undeserving  of  the  honor.  It  is 
this  which  gives  interest  to  his  extant  speech.  He 
labored  to  convince  the  Athenians  that  his  rival 
could  not  have  been  thoroughly  sincere  in  his  anti- 
Macedonian  professions,  because  he  had  let  slip  three 
important  opportunities.  Demosthenes  had  done 
nothing,  so  he  argued,  when  Alexander  first  crossed 
into  Asia;  or  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  in  great 
jeopardy  just  before  the  battle  of  Issus  in  333  B.C.; 
Or  lastly,  when  Sparta,  as  has  been  stated,  made  an 
attempt  at  resistance.  It  was  in  the  year  of  this 
Unsuccessful  attempt — the  year  330  B.C.,  when  Mace- 
don  was  triumphant  both  in  Asia  and  Greece— that 
this  memorable  cause  between  the  two  rival  orators 
was  heard  before  the  Athenian  assembly.  As  might 
have  been  expected,  there  was  a  numerous  gathering  both 
of  citizens  and  strangers,  very  many  of  whom  were 
well  qualified  to  be  keen  critics  of  the  great  contest. 


123  DEM08TUENES. 

The  question  re  illy  to  be  decided — and  this  was  the 
issue  which  jEschines  was  anxious  to  raise — was,  Had 
Doraosthenes  been  a  "fijood  or  bad  citizen?  Had  he 
honestly  at  all  times  and  seasons  stood  by  the  cause 
ill  which  he  so  earnestly  professed  to  believe?  Demos- 
thenes' reply  to  this  question  is  the  vindication  of  his 
political  life.  The  cause  for  which  he  had  exerted 
himself,  though  fit^ally  unsuccessful,  was,  he  mainlain?, 
the  true  and  the  right  cause.  Had  he  foreseen  the  end 
from  th:3  beginning,  he  would  have  spoken  and  acted 
as  he  did.  He  reviews  his  policy  from  the  peace  of 
346  B.C.,  concluded  just  after  Philip's. destruction  of 
Phocis,  down  to  the  king's  death  ten  years  afterwards. 
To  all  this  he  looks  back  with  satisfaction  and  pride. 
In  defending  himself  he  attacks  his  rival,  and  de- 
nounces him  as  really  the  author  of  the  calamities 
which  had  fallen  on  the  Greek  world.  It  was 
through  the  diplomacy  of  ^schines,  he  declares,  that 
Philip  was  admitted  to  Thermopylae,  the  beginning  of 
all  the  subsequent  mischief.  If  it  was  dreadful  to 
think  of  Greece  being  under  a  foreign  master,  it  was  a 
glorious  fact  that  Athens  had  done  her  best  to  avert 
such  a  disgrace. 

This  is  the  drift  and  purport  of  the  great  speech  on 
the  Crown,  as  it  is  usually  called.  It  has  been  well 
described  by  Mr.  Grote  as  a  "  funeral  oration  on  ex- 
tinct Athenian  and  Greecian  freedom."  "  It  breathes," 
says  Dr.  Thirl  wall,  "  the  spirit  of  that  high  philosophy 
which,  whether  learnt  in  the  schools  or  from  life,  has 
consoled  the  noblest  of  our  kind  in  prisons  and  on 
scaffolds,  and  under  every  persecution  of  adverse 
fortune,  but  in  the  tone  necessary  to  impress  a  mixed 
multitude  with  a  like  feeling,  and  to  elevate  it  for  a 
while  into  a  sphere  above  its  own." 


DEMOSTHENES  AND  ^SCIUJSES        127 

Some  passages  from  this  oration  have  already  heen 
quoted  in  the  preceding  chapter;  and  it^  is  due  to  the 
reader  to  give  him  some  further  specimens  of,  pefhaps, 
the  greatest  of  all  the  oratorical  efforts  of  Demosthenes. 

Here  is  a  passage  in  which  the  speaker  dwells  on  the 
generous  and  magnanimous  temper  of  his  countrymen 
In  their  best  days: 

"  Let  mi  for  a  moment  bring  before  your  eyes  one 
or  two  of  the  brightest  passages  in  the  history  of  our 
times.  Lacedsemon  was  paramount  by  sea  and  land; 
she  had  a  belt  tft  garrisons  about  the  frontiers  of  our 
territory;  Euboea,  Tanagra,  all  Boeotia,  Megara,  ^gina, 
Cleonse,  every  island  on  the  coast.  We  had  neither 
ships  nor  walls;  we  were  in  no  want  (had  we  chosen 
to  remember  the  Decclean  war)  of  grievances  either 
against  Corinlh  cr  Thebes.  And  yet  the  arms  of 
Athens  were  seen  at  Haliartus,  and  in  a  few  days  after 
at  Corinth.  You  iiad  something  better  to  do  than  to 
recall  the  injuries  of  the  past.     .     .     . 

"The  sacrifice  in  either  case  was  not  made  for  a 
benefactor,  neither  was  it  made  withoiit  risk.  You 
held  that  no  reason  for  abandoning  to  their  fate  mem 
who  had  thrown  themselves  on  your  compassion. 
Honor  and  renown  were  a  sufficient  motive  to  lead  you 
into  danger,  and  who  shall  say  you  were  wrong?  Life 
must  cease ;  death  must  come  at  some  time,  though  one 
should  steal  into  a  cellar  to  avoid  him.  The  brave  are 
over  ready  to  set  forth  on  the  path  of  glory,  armed 
with  high  hope  acd  courage,  prepared  to  accept  with- 
out a  murmur  the  fate  which  heaven  may  ordain.  Thus 
did  your  forefathers;  thus  did  the  elders  among  your- 
selves, who  interposed  and  frustrated  the  attempts  of 
the  Thebans  after  their  victory  at  Leuctra  to  destroy 
Bparta,  though  from  Spar  la  you  h  id  experienced  neither 


128  DEMOSTHENES. 

friendship  nor  good  offices,  but  niany  grievious  wrongs. 
You  neither  quailed  before  the  power  and  renown 
whicn  Tliebes  then  possessed,  nor  were  you  deterred 
by  any  thought  of  your  past  treatment  by  Sparta. 
Thus  did  you  proclaim  to  all  the  Greeks,  that  how 
much  soever  any  of  them  may  offend  against  you,  you 
reserve  your  resentment  for  other  occasions;  but  that 
if  danger  threaten  their  existence  or  their  liberties,  you 
will  take  no  account  of — you  will  not  even  remember — 
your  wrongs." 

This  is  his  answer  to  those  who  persisted  in  saying 
that  it  was  Philip— Philip  alone — who  had  brought  all 
their  troubles  on  thf^m: 

'*  Do  not  go  about  repeating  that  Greece  owes  all  her 
misfortunes  to  one  man.  No,  not  to  one  man,  but  to 
many  abandoned  men  distributed  throughout  the  differ- 
ent States,  of  whom,  by  earth  and  heaven,  ^schines  is 
one.  If  the  truth  were  to  be  spoken  without  reserve, 
I  should  not  hesitate  to  call  him  the  common  scourge 
of  all  the  men,  the  districts,  and  the  cities  which  have 
perished;  for  the  sower  of  the  seed  is  answerable  for 
the  crop.  I  am  astonished  you  did  not  turn  your  f^ices 
from  him  the  moment  you  beheld  him;  but  thick  dark- 
ness would  seem  to  veil  your  eyes." 

He  maintains  that  the  action  of  the  State  had  been 
right  and  honorable,  though  it  had  failed. 

' '  I  affirm  that  if  the  future  had  been  apparent  to  us 
all — if  you,  JSschines,  had  foretold  it  and  proclaimed 
it  at  the  top  of  your  voice  instead  of  preserving  total 
silence,— nevertheless  the  State  ought  not  to  have  devi- 
ated from  her  course,  if  she  had  regard  to  her  own  honor, 
the  traditions  of  the  past,  or  the  judgment  of  poster- 
ity. As  it  is,  she  is  looked  upon  as  having  failed  in  her 
policy, — the  common  lot  of  all  mankind  when  such  is 


DEMOSTHENES  AND   .ESCHINES.       120 

the  will  of  heaven ;  but  if,  claiming  to  be  the  foremost 
state  of  Greece,  she  had  deserted  her  post,  she  would 
have  incurred  the  reproach  of  betraying  Greece  to 
Philip.  If  we  had  abandoned  without  a  struggle  all 
which  our  forefathers  braved  every  danger  to  win, 
who  would  not  have  spurned  you,  ^schines  ?  God 
forbid  that  I  should  so  speak  of  the  State  as  of  my- 
self. How  could  we  have  looked  in  the  face  the 
strangers  who  flock  to  our  city,  if  things  had  reached 
their  present  pass — Philip  the  chosen  leader  and  lord 
of  all — while  others  without  our  assistance  had  borne 
the  struggle  to  avert  this  consummation  ?  We !  who 
have  never  in  times  past  preferred  inglorious  safety 
to  peril  in  the  path  of  honor.  Is  there  a  Greek  or  a 
barbarian  who  does  not  know  that  Thebes  at  the 
height  of  her  power,- and  Sparta  before  her — ay,  and 
even  the  King  of  Persia  himself — would  have  been 
only  glad  to  compromise  with  us,  and  that  we 
might  have  had  what  we  chose,  and  possessed  our 
own  in  peace,  had  we  been  willing  to  obey  orders  and 
to  suffer  Miother  to  put  himself  at  the  head  of  Greece  ? 
But  it  was  not  possible, — it  was  not  a  thing  which  the 
Athenians  of  those  days  could  do.  It  was  against 
their  nature,  their  genius,  and  their  traditions;  and 
no  human  persuasion  could  induce  them  to  side  with 
a  wrong-doer  because  he  was  powerful,  and  to  em- 
brace subjection  because  it  was  safe.  No;  to  the  last 
our  country  has  fought  and  jeopardized  herself  for 
honor  and  glory  and  pre-eminence.  A  noble  choice, 
in  harmony  with  your  national  character,  as  you  tes- 
tify by  your  respect  for  the  memories  of  your  ances- 
tors who  have  so  acted.  And  you  are  in  the  right; 
for  who  can  withhold  admiration  from  the  heroism 
of  the  men  who  shrank  not  from  leaving  their  city 
and  their  fatherland  and  embarking  in  their  war-ships, 


130  DEMOSTHENES. 

rather  than  submit  to  foreign  dictation  ?  Why, 
Themistocles,  who  counseled  this  step,  was  elected 
general;  and  the  man  who  counseled  submission  was 
stoned  to  death — and  not  he  only,  for  his  wife  was 
stoned  by  your  wives,  as  he  was  by  you.  The  Athe- 
nians of  those  days  went  not  in  quest  of  an  orator  or  a 
general  who  could  help  them  to  prosperous  slavery; 
but  they  scorned  life  itself,  if  it  were  not  the  life  of 
freedom.  Each  of  tlijem  regarded  himself  as  the  child 
not  only  of  his  father  and  of  his  mother,  but  of  his 
country;  and  what  is  the  difference  ?  He  who  looks 
on  himself  as  merely  the  child  of  his  parents,  awaits 
death  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature;  while  he  who 
looks  on  himself  as  the  child  also  of  his  country,  will 
be  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  rather  than  see  her  en- 
slaved, and  will  hold  death  itself  less  terrible  than 
the  insults  and  indignities  which  the  citizens  of  a 
state  in  slavery  to  the  foreigner  must  endure.  .  .  . 
"  Do  I  take  credit  to  myself  for  having  inspired  you 
with  sentiments  worthy  of  your  ancestors  ?  Such  pre- 
sumption would  expose  me  to  the  just  rebijke  of  every 
man  who  hears  me.  What  I  maintain  is,  that  these 
very  sentiments  are  your  own;  that  the  spirit  of 
Athens  was  the  same  before  my  time, — ^though  I  do 
claim  to  have  had' a  share  in  the  application  of  'these 
principles  to  each  successive  crisis,  ^sciiines,  there- 
fore, when  he  impeaches  our  whole  policy,  and  seeks 
to  exasperate  you  against  me  as  the  author  of  all  your 
alarms  and  perils,  in  his  anxiety  to  deprive  me  of 
present  credit,  is  really  laboring  to  rob  you  of  your 
everlasting  renown.  If  by  your  vote  against  Ctesiphon 
you  condemn  my  policy,  you  will  pronounce  yourselves 
to  have  been  in  the  wrong,  instead  of  having  suffered 
what  has  befallen  you  through  the  cruel  injustice  of 
fortune.    But  it  cannot  be :  you  have  not  been  in  the 


DEMOSTHENES  AND  JESCHINES.       131 

wrong,  men  of  Athens,  in  doing  battle  for  the  freedom, 
and  salvation  of  all;  I  swear  it  by  your  forefathers, 
who  bore  the  battle's  brunt  at  Marathon;  by  those 
who  stood  in  arms  at  Platsea;  by  those  who  fought 
the  sea-fight  at  Salamis;  by  the  heroes  of  Artemisium, 
and  many  more  whose  resting  place  in  our  national 
monuments  attests  that,  that  as  our  country  buried, 
so  she  honored,  all  alike — victors  and  vanquished. 
She  was  right;  for  what  brave  men  could  do,  all  did, 
though  a  higher  power  was  master  of  their  fate." 

This,  perhaps,  is  the  most  striking  of  the  many 
striking  passages  in  this  great  speech.  Demosthenes 
carried  his  audience  with  him.  His  rival  did  not 
obtain  a  fifth  of  the  votes.  His  position  as  an  orator 
and  statesman  was  destroyed.  His  discomfiture  had 
been  witnessed  by  the  whole  Greek  world.  In  his 
mortification  he  left  his  native  city  for  Rhodes,  where 
he  set  up  a  school  of  rhetoric.  The  story  was  told 
that  he  once  declaimed  to  his  pupils  the  speech  which 
had  driven  him  into  exile ;  and  in  reply  to  the  ap- 
plause with  which  it  was  greeted,%xclaimed,  "What 
if  you  had  heard  the  beast  himself  speak  it  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LAST  DAYS  OF  DEMOSTHENES. 

Demosthenes  had  won  a  splendid  triumph,  which 
he  survived  eight  years.  But  they  were  years  by  no 
means  unclouded.  They  were  darkened  by  an  un- 
fortunate incident,  which  we  proceed  briefly  to  nar- 
rate. 

From  330  to  324  B.C.,  we  hear  nothing  of  the  great 
orator.  Athens,  in  fact,  had  no  politics  for  him  to 
discuss.  He  could  have  had  notliing  to  do  but  to 
advise  private  clients.  By  the  year  324  Alexander 
had  returned  from  that  long  expedition  in  which  he 
had  carried  his  ari!^  through  the  heart  of  Asia  to  the 
banks  of  the  Indus.  He  had  left  behind  him  one  of 
his  old  Macedonian  friends  in  the  government  of  the 
rich  satrapy  of  Babylonia.  Harpalus  (this  was  the 
man's  name)  was  greedy  and  extravagant,  and  wasted 
the  resources  of  his  province  in  a  luxury  which  he  had 
learnt  during  his  residence  in  the  East.  It  was  said 
that  he  loaded  his  table  with  the  most  costly  delicacies, 
and  filled  his  gardens  with  exotic  plants  of  every 
variety.  He  had  found  it  convenient  to  please  the 
people  of  Athens  by  splendid  presents,  and  particu- 
larly by  very  liberal  gifts  of  wheat  for  free  and  gen- 
eral distribution.  For  all  this  he  had  received  votes  of 
thanks  and  been  made  an  Athenian  citizen.  He  was 
afraid,  however,  to  face  Alexander,  who,  ho  well  kneWi 


LAST  DAYS  OF  DEMOSTHENES.         133 

showed  no  mercy  to  delinquent  satraps.  So  he  fled 
from  Asia  to  Europe  with  an  immense  treasure  of  5,000 
talents  (about  a  million  and  a  quarter  pounds  sterling), 
and  landed  at  Cape  Sunium,  in  Attica.  He  might 
reasonably  flatter  himself  that  he  would  not  be  an 
unwelcome  visitor  at  Athens,  but  in  this  he  was  dis- 
appointed. There  was  the  fear  of  the  wrath  of 
Alexander;  and  the  fear,  too,  that  Harpalus  might 
possibly  intend  to  assume  the  position  of  a  tyrant  or 
despot.  His  offers,  whatever  they  were,  were  rejected ; 
but  there  was  a  debate  in  the  Assembly,  and  a  rumor 
reached  Alexander  that  x4.thens  had  received  him  and 
his  armament.  This  was  at  the  time  untrue;  but 
when  he  sent  away  his  ships  and  asked  leave  to  be 
admitted  into  the  city  with  a  few  personal  attendants, 
the  people,  remembering  his  past  favors,  no  longer 
refused.  Having  gained  his  point,  he  tried  to  per- 
suade them  that  they  might  defy  Alexander  with  a 
prospect  of  success,  and  that  he  was  himself  able  and 
willing  to  furnish  them  with  the  necessary  funds. 
Some  of  the  orators  supported  his  views.  But  he 
could  do  nothing  with  Phocion  or  with  Demosthenes. 
This  was  fatal  to  his  project.  Soon  there  came 
envoys  from  Antipater,  Alexander's  deputy  in  Mace- 
donia, requiring  his  surrender.  But  this  botli  Phocion 
and  Demosthenes,  notwithstanding  the  danger  of  the 
crisis,  opposed.  So  alarmed,  however,  were  the  people 
at  the  thought  of  Alexander's  probable  vengeance,  that 
they  decided  on  arresting  Harpalus  and  sequestrating 
his  treasure  till  they  could  learn  what  view  Alexander 
took  of  the  matter;  and  this  much  they  did  on  the 
motion  of  Demosthenes  himself.  It  seems  possible,  as 
has  been  suggested,  that  Demosthenes  proposed  this 
motion  with  an  arriere-pensee,  and  may  have  wished 
to  detain  Harpalus  and  his  treasure,  and  to  wait  the 


lU  DEMOSTHENES, 

course  of  events.  Harpalus  contrived  to  escape ;  but 
his  treasure — that  part  of  it  at  least  which  he  had 
brought  to  Athens  after  dismissing  his  fleet,  and  which 
amounted,  according  to  statements  made  by  Demos- 
thenes on  his  authority,  to  about  720  talents — remained 
behind.  This,  of  course,  ought  to  have  been  returned — 
and  the  people  were,  it  seems,  prepared  to  do  so;  but 
when  the  money  was  counted  it  was  found  that  there 
was  no  more  than  350  talents,  barely  half  the  original 
sum.  How  was  the  deficiency  to  be  exijlained  ? 
There  was  a  great  stir  and  outcry.  People  said  that 
it  must  have  been  used  in  bribery,  and  that  the 
missing  money  must  have  stuck  to  the  fingers  of  the 
orators  and  public  men.  There  was  a  general  feeling 
that  somebody  ought  to  be  punished,  but  there  was 
not  a  scrap  of  evidence  against  any  one,  and  no  means 
of  procuring  it. 

Demosthenes  proposed  to  have  the  affair  investigated 
by  the  court  of  Areopagus.  It  was  not  easy  to  see  what 
better  course  could  have  been  taken.  At  the  same  time, 
the  members  of  that  court  must  have  felt  that  they 
could  hardly  hope,  under  the  circumstances,  to  arrive 
at  a  perfectly  satisfactory  result.  No  doubt  they  com- 
manded the  public  confidence,  as  they  were  all  men  of 
age  and  experience,  and  were  from  their  position  above 
the  motives  which  occasionally  swayed  other  courts. 
Great  latitude  was  allowed  them ;  and  practically  they 
often  decided  cases  not  simply  on  the  evidence  before 
them,  but  on  hearsay,  and  on  that  personal  knowledge 
which  men  in  their  rank  would  be  sure  to  possess.  They 
took  the  utmost  pains  with  the  present  inquiry,  and 
were  engaged  on  it  for  six  months.  They  went  so  far  as 
to  search  the  houses  of  the  principal  public  men,  with 
the  exception  of  one  who  had  been  lately  married — an 
exception  perhaps  to  be   attributed   to  a 'sense  of 


LAST  DA  YS  OF  DEMOSTHENES.         135 

delicacy.  At  last  they  published  their  report,  with  a 
list  of  the  names  of  persons  whom  they  considered 
chargeable  with  having  improperly  possessed  them- 
selves of  the  missing  money. 

In  this  list  appeared  the  name  of  Demosthenes  as 
a  debtor  to  the  amount  of  twenty  talents.  The  next 
step  was  to  give  the  accused  parties  the  choice  of 
taking  their  trial  or  of  payi^jg  the  sum  with  which  the 
Areopagus  had  debited  them.  Of  those  brought  to 
trial,  Demosthenes  w^as  the  first.  He  was  tried  before 
a  jury  of  1,500  of  his  fellow-citizens,  was  found  guilty, 
and  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine  of  fifty  talents  (about 
£12,000).  It  is  very  possible  that  among  the  jury 
which  condemned  him  there  may  have  been  many  who 
wished  to  please  Alexander,  and  many,  too,  of  the 
friends  of  Harpalus.  It  must,  however,  be  remem- 
bered that  the  decision  of  the  Areopagus  could  not 
fail  to  influence  their  verdict.  Demosthenes  would 
not  or  could  not  pay  the  fine.  He  was  imprisoned, 
but  in  a  few  days  was  able  to  escape  to  Troezen,  in  the 
territory  of  Argos.  It  was  but  a  few  months  that  he 
remained  there. 

We  can  hardly  bring  ourselves  to  believe  that  he 
was  really  guilty.  Of  course  we  can  judge  only 
by  probabilities;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  court  of 
Areopagus  must  have  had  grounds  for  their  suspicion. 
We  must  bear  in  mind  that  they  merely  drew  up  a 
list  of  persons  whose  case  in  their  opinion  required 
further  judicial  inquiry.  There  is  no  reason  for  assum- 
ing that  they  regarded  the  guilt  of  Demosthenes  as 
certain.  The  inquiry  was  long  and  difficult;  and  the 
decision  ultimately  arrived  at  could  have  been  hardly 
meant  to  express  confident  assurance.  If  Demosthenes 
publicly  stated,  on  Harpalus'  authority,  the  amount  of 
the  treasure,  it  seems  strange  that  he  should  have  made 


150  DEMOSTHENES. 

himself  a  party  to  the  disappearance  of  a  portion  of  it. 
It  may  be  that  the  statement  he  made  had  not  been 
verified  by  him,  and  it  may  have  been  altogether  errone- 
ous. It  is  pleasant  to  find  that  both  Dr.  Thirlwall  and 
Mr.  Grote  incline  to  acquit  him  of  this  mean  dishonesty. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  mention  a  story  told  by  Plu- 
tarch about  this  painful  passage  in  the  life  of  Demos- 
thenes. Like  many  of  his  stories,  it  is  probably  a  pure 
fiction,  but  it  is  at  least  amusing.  Harpalus,  he  tells 
us,  won  over  the  orator  to  his  side  by  sending  him  a 
singularly  beautiful  golden  cup,  his  admiration  of 
which  he  had  noted.  Along  with  the  cup  were  twenty 
talents,  the  sum  with  which  the  Areopagus  had  debited 
him.  Shortly  afterwards,  when  the  proposals  of  Har- 
palus were  being  discussed  in  the  assembly,  Demos- 
thenes, who  had  previously  opposed  them,  appeared 
with  a  woolen  bandage  round  his  throat,  and  pretended 
that  he  could  not  speak,  from  an  attack  of  the  quinsy. 
Some  wag  remarked  that  it  must  be  the  silver  quinsy. 
The  people  laughed,  but  were  angry.  Such  is  the  story. 
But,  as  a  fact,  Demosthenes  did  not  drop  his  opposition 
to  Harpalus.  It  was  on  his  motion,  as  we  have  seen, 
that  Harpalus  was  arrested  and  his  treasure  seques- 
trated. 

We  left  the  great  orator  in  exile  at  Troezen.  He  was 
recalled  soon  after  th*  death  of  Alexander  in  323  B.C. 
An  attempt  was  then  made  once  more  to  rid  Greece  of 
the  Macedonian  ascendancy.  It  was  finally  crushed 
by  Antipater  in  the  battle  of  Crannon  in  322  B.C.  The 
conqueror  demanded  the  surrender  of  the  leading  anti- 
Macedonian  orators — Demosthenes,  of  course,  among 
them.  Athens  from  this  moment  ceased  to  exist  as 
a  free  state.  A  Macedonian  garrison  was  intro- 
duced; there  was  a  wholesale  disfranchisement  of 
citizens,  and  anew  political  constitution  was  imposed 


LAST  DAYS  OF  DEMOSTHENES.         137 

on  the  city.  Demosthenes  did  not  remain  to  be  a  wit- 
ness of  this  degradation.  He  had  been  welcomed 
back  to  his  native  Athens  with  joyful  enthusiasm; 
now  he  must  leave  her  forever.  He  took  refuge  in 
the  little  island  of  Calauria,  off  the  coast  of  Argolis. 
It  was  here  that  he  chose  to  die  rather  than  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  *' exile-hunters,"  as  the  emissaries 
of  Antipater  were  called.  Within  the  precincts  of 
an  ancient  temple  of  Neptune,  regarded  of  old  as  an 
inviolable  sanctuary,  he  swallowed  poison,  retaining 
in  his  last  moments  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to 
expire  outside  the  sacred  enclosure,  to  which,  in 
Greek  belief,  death  would  have  been  a  pollution. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAB. 

It  has  seemed  most  convenient  not  to  interrupt  our 
sketch  of  the  poUtical  career  of  Demosthenes  with 
any  allusions  to  his  purely  forensic  engagements.  He 
became,  comparatively  early  in  life — that  is  to  say, 
when  he  was  probably  under  thirty  years  of  age — a 
very  successful  pleader  in  large  practice.  It  may  be  as 
well  now  to  give  the  reader  some  idea  of  the  work  with 
which  he  was  occupied,  and  of  the  speeches  which  in 
this  capacity  he  was  called  on  to  deliver. 

At  Athens  there  was  no  separate  and  distinct  class 
answering  to  our  bar.  But  there  were  professional 
orators  and  rhetoricians  in  abundance,  who  made  it 
their  business  to  compose  speeches  for  plaintiffs  and 
defendants.  They  did  not,  however,  as  a  rule,  make 
the  speeches  themselves ;  they  merely  prepared  them 
and  put  them  in  the  hands  Of  their  clients,  who  com- 
mitted* them  to  memory  and  then  addressed  the  court. 
Of  course  it  would  often  happen  that  a  man  felt  him- 
self quite  unequal  to  such  an  ordeal,  and  would  get  an 
experienced  speaker  to  plead  for  him.  Most,  however, 
of  the  forensic  speeches  of  Demosthenes  which  have 
come  down  to  us,  were  written  for  delivery  by  the 
plaintiff  or  the  defendant  in  person.  Part  of  the 
orator's  art  consisted  in  adopting  them  to  the  style  and 


DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAR.  139 

manner  of  man  his  client  happened  to  be.  This  cir- 
cumstance often  gives  piquancy  to  these  speeches. 
They  abound  in  amusing  passages  illustrative  of  many 
varieties  of  Athenian  life.  We  have  descriptive  touches 
of  the  peculiar  ways  of  the  commercial  rogue,  of  the 
money-lender,  of  the  fraudulent  trustee.  Fortune  has 
been  kind  in  preserving  for  us  something  like  thirty 
orations  of  Demosthenes,  in  which  these  and  kindred 
figures  present  themselves  to  our  notice.  We  thus 
peep  into  the  banking  house  and  the  factory,  and  see 
the  Athenian  citizen  bargaining  with  merchants  and 
ship-owners,  or  busy  with  his  farm,  or  making  his 
last  will  and  testament. 

Athens  was  a  city  in  which  lawsuits  could  not  fail 
to  be  plentiful.  It  was  a  centre  of  trade,  and  a  resort 
to  foreigners  from  all  parts.  Then,  too,  there  were  the 
mines  of  Laurium  along  the  coast;  there  were  quarries 
of  marble ;  and  the  adjacent  seas  were  famous  for  their 
fisheries.  Athenian  manufactures,  too,  were  highly 
prized.  From  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea  and  the 
islands  of  the  ^Egean  there  was  a  good  trade  in  corn, 
timber,  wine,  and  wool.  Here  were  all  the  materials 
of  commerce  and  consequently  of  litigation.  Many 
an  Athenian  citizen  was  himself  in  business ;  and  the 
city  seems  to  have  swarmed  with  bustling,  enterprising 
foreigners  who  found  it  convenient  to  make  it  their 
home.  The  law  courts  had  plenty  of  worlc  to  dor:-SQ 
much  so,  indeed,  that  the  "law's  delay"  appears  to ' 
have  been  as  familiar  to  Athenians  as  to  ourselves. 
"  Some  people,"  says  Xenophon,  if  he  really  wrote  the 
treatise  attributed  to  him  on  the  Athenian  republic, 
"  complain  that  a  man  often  waits  a  twelvemonth  at 
Athens  before  he  can  obtain  an  audience  of  the  Senate 
t)r  of  the  popular  assembly.  The  fact  is,  they  have  so 
tnuch  to  do  tliere  that  it  is  impossible  to  attend  to  'every 


140  DEMOSTHENES. 

man's  application;  some,  therefore,  are  compelled  to 
go  away  unheard."  Ill-natured  persons,  it  seems, 
hinted  that  anybody  could  obtain  a  hearing  by  means 
of  a  bribe.  Xenophon  admits  that  there  may  be  some 
truth  in  this;  but  he  adds,  speaking  from  his  own 
knowledge,  "  that  for  no  amount  of  gold  and  silver 
which  could  be  offered  would  it  be  possible  for  the 
Athenians  to  transact  all  the  business  that  is  brought 
before  them."  Athens,  in  fact,  was  the  place  to  which 
nearly  all  causes  from  the  islands  of  the  ^gean  were 
brought  for  trial;  and  to  which,  too,  it  was  probably 
best  and  safest  that  they  should  be  brought.  Athenian 
trials  were  conducted  in  a  way  which  to  us  seems 
singular,  and  which  at  first  sight  might  appear  very 
unfavorable  to  the  administration  of  justice.  Causes 
were  heard,  as  with  us,  before  juries;  but  at  Athens 
a  jury  commonly  numbered  500,  and  might  number 
1,000  or  even  more.  It  was,  in  fact,  trial  before  a 
popular  assembly.  There  was  a  president,  but  he  was 
not  armed  with  the  controlling  powers  of  an  English 
judge.  Everything  was  left  to  the  jury;  the  law  of 
the  case  as  well  as  the  facts  was  for  them  to  decide. 
To  us  this  may  seem  the  height  of  absurdity;  but 
still  at  Athens  it  worked  moderately  well,  and  in  a 
majority  of  cases  we  may  believe  that  it  secured  at 
least  substantial  justice.  The  Athenian  juror,  it  is 
true,  had  not  received  what  we  call  a  legal  education ; 
but  he  was  naturally  critical  and  sharp  witted,  and  he 
was  well  practiced  in  the  hearing  of  causes.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  the  average  decisions  of  an  Athenian  jury 
may  have  been  as  good  and  satisfactory  as  those  of  an 
English.  There  was,  of  course,  a  danger  of  their  being 
swayed  too  much  at  times  by  political  considerations. 
But  to  this  we  know  that  an  English  jury  is  also  liable. 
Th^re  was  another  and  a  worse  danger.  The  population 


DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAR.  141 

of  Athens  was  comparatively  small ;  and  so  it  would 
often  happen  that  plaintiff  and  defendant,  and  the 
case  at  issue  between  them,  would  be  well  known  to  the 
jurors.  The  Athenian  pleader  was  continually  appeal- 
ing to  the  personal  knowledge  of  the  jury,  and  would 
in  this  manner  supplement  deficiencies  in  the  evidence. 
"He  is  a  scoundrel;  you  all  know  him  to  be  one," — 
this  was  the  sort  of  language  commonly  addressed  to.a 
jury  at  Athens.  JEschines,  in  prosecuting  one  Timar- 
chus,  dwells  on  the  notoriety  of  the  man's  guilt  and 
wickedness — "  Such,"  he  says,  "■  is  the  testimony  of  the 
whole  people  of  Athens,  and  it  is  not  right  that  they 
should  be  convicted  of  perjury."  This  strikes  us  as 
a  very  loose  method  of  procedure.  Yet  we  find  it 
repeatedly  in  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes.  And  it  is 
what  we  must  expect  where  the  judicial  system  is  made 
thoroughly  democratic.  We  must  not  be  surprised  at 
the  savage  invective  with  which  the  greatest  Athenian 
orators  thought  it  seemly  to  interlard  their  speeches. 
Even  with  us  and  all  our  restrictions,  advocates  con- 
trive occasionally  to  indulge  in  considerable  license, 
and  did  so  formerly  to  a  much  greater  extent;  and  it 
is,  perhaps,  a  question  whether  some  of  the  most 
offensive  passages  in  Demosthenes  and  ^schines 
might  not  be  paralleled  from  English  pleadings. 

Another  evil  of  the  Athenian  judicial  system  was 
the  division  of  responsibility.  One  out  of  500  or 
1,000  jurors  might  very  well  shelter  himself  under  the 
excuse,  that  if  he  decided  wrongly  from  carelessness 
or  partiality,  the  result  would  not  be  much  affected. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  were  advantages  which  will 
occur  to  the  minds  of  those  who  are  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  free  institutions.  Corruption  and  bri- 
bery cannot  have  been  particularly  easy.  Nor  again, 
could  anything  like  intimidation  be  well  practiced. 


142  DEMOSTHENES. 

The  fact,  too,  that  rich  and  poor  were  brought  to- 
gether to  discharge  an  important  public  function, 
would  have  a  salutary  effect.  It  would  make  them 
feel  that  they  were  members  of  one  commonwealth, 
and  inspire  them  with  a  respect  for  its  laws.  It 
would  call  out  many  of  their  best  sentiments  as  well 
as  sharpen  their  intellects.  Their  decisions  may  have 
sometimes  been  such  as  we  with  our  modern  ideas 
cannot  approve ;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  may  be  as- 
sumed that  they  conimanded  the  confidence  of  the 
people.  The  Athenian  may  have  had  a  perverse  fond- 
ness for  listening  to  the  wranglings  of  rival  pleaders ; 
but  he  did  his  best  generally  to  hear  both  sides  fairly 
and  to  decide  rightly.  The  jury  system,  with  all  its 
accompaniments  of  trained  oratory  and  carefully  com- 
posed speeches,  was  contemporaneous  with  the  mar- 
velous development  of  Athenian  literature  in  the  age 
of  Pericles.  To  it  wq  are  certainly  indebted  for  some 
of  the  most  splendid  monuments  of  human  genius. 

Such  numerous  juries  could  hardly  have  been  fit  to 
deal  with  cases  involving  a  multitude  of  intricate  de- 
tails connected  with  money  accounts  or  valuations  of 
property.  Matters  of  this  kind  were  usually  referred, 
as  with  us,  to  a  court  of  arbitration — public  arbitra- 
tors being  annually  appointed.  Of  these  we  hear  con- 
tinually in  the  forensic  speeches  of  the  Athenian  or- 
ators, and  we  may  take  it  for  granted  that  much  of 
the  law  business  was  disposed  of  by  them.  Indeed, 
it  was  the  regular  practice  to  submit  ordinary  private 
disputes  to  arbitrators  in  the  first  instance ;  but,  as 
might  have  been  expected  in  a  democratic  state, 
there  was  always  an  appeal  from  their  decisions  to  a 
jury. 

On  the  whole  it  was  not  unlikely  that  justice  was 
fau'lv  well  administered  in    the  Athenian    courts. 


DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAR,  143 

Such,  at  all  events,  seems  to  have  been  the  opinion  of 
the  Greek  world;  and  we  can  hardly  suppose  that 
that  opinion  was  without  foundation.  Some  of  the 
drawbacks  of  the  system  have  been  already  noted,  and 
they  were  no  doubt  considerable.  A  clever  and  un- 
scrupulous advocate  might  have  had  a  better  chance 
at  Athens  than  he  would  have  with  us.  It  is,  of 
course,  an  immense  advantage  that  a  trained  lawyer 
should  preside  over  a  court,  and  sum  up  the  case,  and 
point  out  to  the  jury  the  general  principles  by  which 
they  should  be  guided.  It  is  probable  that  the  want 
of  this  was  often  felt  at  Athens,  and  led  occasionally 
to  unfortunate  results.  Still,  we  may  be  sure  that 
the  average  Athenian  was  a  man  of  intelligence,  and 
perfectly  open  to  reason.  Practice,  too,  made  him 
tolerably  well  acquainted  with  his  country' s  laws.  It 
is  the  greatest  mistake  to  conceive  of  Athens  as  "  a 
fierce  democracy."  Her  citizens  were  for  the  most 
part  moderately-cultivated  persons,  of  a  tolerant  tem- 
per, and  willing  to  obey  the  laws  and  the  constitution. 
A  successful  Athenian  advocate  must  have  come  up 
to  a  rather  high  standard ;  and  if  his  invective  was 
sometimes  coarse  and  offensively  personal,  it  must 
have  been  set  off  by  a  certain  amount  of  wit,  and  have 
been  accompanied  with  acute  reasoning. 

Much  of  the  litigation  at  Athens  arose  out  of  bot- 
tomry cases — that  is,  loans  of  money  on  the  security 
of  a  ship  or  of  its  cargo.  Business  of  this  kind  was 
transacted  on  a  great  scale ;  and  as  the  risk  was  con- 
siderable, the  interest  charged  was  high — as  much 
sometimes  as  thirty  per  cent.  There  seem  to  have 
been  endless  trickeries  connected  with  it.  One  o^ 
Demosthenes'  speeches,  for  instance,  was  on  behalf  of 
two  joint  lenders  who  had  advanced  some  money  on 
tlje  security  of  a  wine  cargo.    Two  brothers,  mer- 


144  DEMOSTHENES. 

chants  of  Phaselis  in  Pampliylia,  were  the  borrowers. 
Phaselis,  it  appears,  had  a  very  bad  commercial  repu- 
tation; and  there  were  said  to  be  more  actions  brought 
against  its  traders  at  Athens  than  against  all  the  other - 
traders  put  together.  In  this  case  Demosthenes' 
client  stated  that  the  borrowers  of  his  money  had 
broken  their  agreement  "  that  they  had  not  shipped 
the  stipulated  quantity  of  wine ;  that  they  had  raised  a 
further  loan  on  the  same  security;  that  they  had  not 
purchased  a  sufficient  return  cargo;  that,  on  their 
return,  they  had  not  entered  the  regular  port  of  Ath- 
ens, but  had  put  into  a  little  obscure  harbor  known  as 
*  Smugglers'  Creek ; '  and  that,  when  the  payment  of  the 
loan  was  demanded,  they  falsely  represented  that  the 
vessel  had  been  wrecked."  Before  the  matter  was  set- 
tled, one  of  the  borrowers  died,  and  his  property  went 
to  his  brother,  Lacritus,  who,  according  to  the  lend- 
ers' statement,  had  verbally  engaged  to  see  that  the 
loan  should  be  repaid.  So  Lacritus  was  sued  for  the 
amount,  although  very  possibly  he  was  not  legally  lia- 
ble, and  may  merely  have  been  a  "  referee  "  for  his 
brother,  and  have  stated,  as  such,  that  to  the  best  of 
his  belief  they  were  solvent.  He  was  a  man  of  some 
note,  having  been  a  pupil  of  Isocrates,  and  being  him- 
self a  rather  celebrated  teacher  of  rhetoric.  He  was, 
in  fact,  what  the  Greeks  called  a  *'  sophist."  On  this 
he  seems  to  have  presumed;  and  he  went  about  brag- 
ging of  his  connection  with  "  the  great  Isocrates." 
Demosthenes  makes  his  client  say:  "These  sophists 
are  a 'bad  lot.'  It  is  no  affair  of  mine  if  a  man 
chooses  to  be  a  sophist,  and  to  pay  fees  to  Isocrates; 
but  they  must  not,  because  they  think  themselves 
clever,  be  allowed  to  swindle  other  people  out  of  their 
money.    Lacritus  does  not  trust  to  the  justice  of  his 


DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAB,  145 

case ;  but  he  thinks  that,  as  he  has  learnt  oratory,  he 
shall  be  able  to  make  you  think  exactly  what  he 
pleases.  Perhaps,  as  he  is  so  clever,  he  will  under- 
take to  prove  that  black  is  white — that  the  money  was 
never  borrowed  at  all — or  that  it  has  been  paid — or 
that  the  bond  is  waste  paper — or  that  the  borrowers 
had  a  right  to  use  our  money  as  they  liked."  It  is 
possible,  as  has  been  supposed,  that  Demosthenes  is 
really  hitting  at  Isocrates  in  his  abuse  of  Lacritus. 

In  one  of  his  speeches  he  argues  against  the  right 
of  a  man  to  take  a  name  already  borne  by  one  of  his 
brothers.  The  case  is  a  rather  singular  one.  Manti- 
theus,  the  son  of  Mantias,  brings  an  action  against 
his  half-brother  Boeotus  for  having  got  himself  regis- 
tered as  Mantitheus.  Boeotus  was  the  son  Mantias  by 
a  mistress,  herself  an  Athenian  citizen,  and  so  capa- 
ble, according  to  Athenian  law,  of  transmitting  citi- 
zenship to  her  offspring.  Every  citizen's  child  was 
enrolled  or  registered  on  the  citizen-list  at  an  early 
age,  and  then  again  subsequently  on  reaching  man- 
hood. Boeotus  received  his  name  on  the  first  of  these 
occasions.  Before  the  second  registration  had  taken 
place,  his  father  died.  Disliking  the  name,  which 
suggested  a  familiar  Greek  proverb,  "like  a  Boeotian 
hog,"  he  contrived  on  this  second  occasion  to  get 
himself  enrolled  under  his  brother's  name  of  Manti- 
theus. In  this  manner  the  legal  designation  of  the 
two  brothers  became  the  same.  It  should  be  noted 
that  at  Athens  a  citizen  was  described  by  his  own 
name,  by  that  of  his  father,  and  that  of  his  parish  or 
township — Attica  being  divided  into  so  many  town- 
ships, or  denies,  as  they  were  called.  In  a  compara- 
tively small  community  this  might  not  be  inconven- 
ient.   What^  however,  Boeotus  had  done,  could  nardly 


146  DEMOSTHENES. 

fail  to  lead  to  confusion.  His  half-brother,  in  the 
speech  composed  for  him  by  Demosthenes,  hints  that 
matters  would  be  all  the  worse,  as  Boeotus  kept 
rather  questionable  company.  Unpleasant  mistakes, 
too,  as  he  points  out,  would  probably  arise  out  of  un- 
paid debts  and  appearances  in  the  law  courts.  In 
fact,  the  son  of  the  lawful  wife  would  often  be  cred- 
ited with  the  scrapes  into  which  the  son  of  the  mis- 
tress was  likely  to  get  himsell 

"You  tiresome  Boeotus,"  says  Demosthenes'  client, 
who  really  seems  to  have  been  a  much-injured  man, 
'*  I  would  wish  you,  if  possible,  to  renounce  all  your 
bad  ways;  but  if  that  is  too  much  to  hope,  pray  oblige 
me  to  this  extent:  cease  to  give  yourself  trouble; 
cease  to  harass  me  with  litigation;  be  content  that 
you  have  gained  a  franchise,  a  property,  a  father. 
No  one  seeks  to  dispossess  you;  nor  do  I.  If,  as  you 
pretend  to  be  a  brother,  you  act  like  a  brother,  peo- 
ple will  believe  that  you  are  my  kinsman.  But  if 
you  plot  against  me,  go  to  law  with  me,  envy  me, 
slander  me,  it  will  be  thought  that  you  have  in- 
truded into  a  strange  family,  and  treat  the  members 
as  if  they  were  alien  to  you.  As  to  me  personally, 
however  wrong  my  father  may  have  been  in  refusing 
to  acknowledge  you,  I  certainly  am  innocent.  It  was 
not  my  business  to  know  who  were  his  sons;  it  was 
for  him  to  show  me  whom  I  was  to  regard  as  brothers. 
As  long  as  he  forebore  to  acknowledge  you,  I  held 
you  no  kinsman ;  ever  since  he  acknowledged  you,  I 
have  regarded  you  as  he  did.  You  have  had  your 
portion  of  the  inheritance  after  my  father's  death; 
you  participate  in  our  religious  worship,  in  our  civil 
rights — no  one  excludes  you  from  these.  What  would 
you  have  ?    Whoever  hears  the  name  will  have  to  ask 


DE3I0STHENES  AT  THE  BAR.  147 

which  of  us  two  are  meant;  then,  if  the  person  means 
you,  he  will  reply,  '  The  one  whom  Mantias  was  com- 
pelled to  adopt.'     Do  you  wish  for  this  ?  " 

We  pass  to  quite  a  different  case.  It  is  a  dispute 
between  two  neighboring  Attic  farmers.*  Their 
holdings  were  in  a  hilly  part  of  Attica,  and  were  sep- 
arated by  a  public  road.  It  is  an  action  for  damages 
which  the  plaintiff,  Callicles,  alleged  that  he  had  sus- 
tained through  the  obstruction  of  a  water-course, 
which  carried  oft'  the  drainage  from  the  surrounding' 
hills.  The  defendant's  father  had  built  a  wall  on  his 
land,  with  the  view  of  diverting  the  water  uito  the 
road.  It  seems  that  in  Attica  a  proprietor  might  turn 
off  his  drainage  into  a  public  way,  to  the  great  detri- 
ment, as  may  well  be  supposed,  of  the  country  roads, 
which,  in  hilly  districts,  must  at  times  have  been  al- 
most impassable.  The  effect  of  the  wall  in  this  case 
was,  that  after  heavy  rains  the  plaintiff's  farm  was 
overflowed,  as  well  as  the  road.  For  this  the  plain- 
tiff brought  his  action.  The  defendant,  Demosthenes' 
client,  pleaded  in  justification  that  the  wall  in  ques- 
tion had  been  lawfully  erected  by  his  father  fifteen 
years  ago;  that  no  objection  was  then  raised  by  the 
plaintiff's  family;  that  the  so-called  water-course 
was  not  really  a  water-course,  but  was  part  of  his 
own  land,  as  it  was  planted  with  fruit-trees,  and  con- 
tained an  old  family  burial  ground.  The  stream,  too, 
which  caused  the  mischief,  did  not  come  to  the  de- 
fendant from  a  neighbor's  farm;  it  flowed  down  the 
road  both  above  and  below  him:  the  flood  which  it 
occasioned  in  wet  weather  was  a  natural  misfortune, 
from  which  others  had  suffered  as  well  as  the  plain- 

*  Speech  against  Callicles, 


148  DEMOSTWENES. 

tiff — only,  tliey  had  never  thought  of  going  to  law 
about  it.  The  def  enaant  broadly  hints  that  the  plain- 
tiff has  an  eye  to  his  property,  and  is  trying  to  oHst 
him  from  it  by  a  vexatious  action.  The  matter  in 
dispute  was  trilling  enough,  and  the  jury  must  have 
been  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  solemnity  with  which 
they  were  implored  to  give  their  best  attention  to  all 
the  details  of  the  case.  "There  is  no  greater  nui- 
sance" (so  the  defendant  begins  his  pleading)  "than 
a  covetous  neighbor,  which  it  has  been  my  lot  to  meet 
with.  Callicles  has  set  his  heart  on  my  land,  and 
worries  me  with  litigation.  First  he  got  his  cousin 
to  claim  it  from  me,  but  I  defeated  that  claim.  I  be- 
seech you  all  to  hear  me  with  attention — ^not  because 
I  am  any  speaker,  but  that  you  may  learn  by  the  facts 
how  groundless  the  action  is."  After  he  has  ex- 
plained the  facts,  he  asks  pathetically  what  he  is  to 
do  with  the  water,  if  he  may  not  drain  it  off  either 
into  the  public  road  or  into  private  ground.  "  Surely," 
he  adds,  with  a  touch  of  bucolic  humor,  "the  plain- 
tiff won't  force  me  to  drink  it  up?"  The  damage 
done  could  not  have  been  very  ruinous,  if  we  may 
judge  from  a  single  specimen.  It  appears  that  the 
mothers  of  the  two  litigants  used  to  visit  each  other, 
as  country  neighbors;  and  on  one  occasion,  when  the 
defendant's  mother  was  calling  at  the  plaintiff's 
house,  she  found  the  family  plunged  in  the  deepest 
distress,  and  apparently  crushed  by  some  more  than 
ordinary  calamity.  It  would  seem  that  the  rustic 
mind  then,  as  now,  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the 
most  ludicrously  trifling  loss,  and  delighted  in  de- 
scribing it  with  the  most  violent  exaggeration.  The 
injured  farmer's  wife,  on  this  occasion,  pointed  with 
tears  to  four  bushels  of  barley  which  had  got  wet  and 


DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAR.  149 

were  being  dried,  and  to  a  jar  of  oil,  which  had  in- 
deed fallen  down,  but  which  was  not  damaged.  For 
this  they  wanted  to  claim,  according  to  the  defend- 
ant, 1,000  drachms,  or  about  £40,  by  way  of  compen- 
sation. An  Attic  farmer,  it  would  seem  (like  his 
English  representative),  was  not  likely  to  suffer  from 
asking  too  little.  There  is  something  very  character- 
istic in  the  following  remark,  which  Demosthenes' 
client  makes  about  his  opponent:  *'In  going  to  law 
with  me,"  he  says,  "  I  hold  the  plaintiff  to  be  thor- 
oughly wicked  and  infatuated." 

In  another*  somewhat  interesting  case,  Demos- 
thenes pleads  for  an  unfortunate  man  who  had  been 
ejected  from  his  township,  and  was  thereby  in  danger 
of  ceasing  to  be  an  Athenian  citizen.  At  Athens  cit- 
izenship was  the  subject  of  the  strictest  scrutiny; 
and  the  registers  of  the  townships  were  kept  with 
the  utmost  care.  Every  citizen,  as  has  been  already 
noted,  had  to  be  twice  registered;  and  to  insure  ac- 
curacy, and  to  exclude  questionable  persons,  the  lists 
were  from  time  to  time  revised.  Even  with  all  these 
precautions,  cases  of  disputed  citizenship  not  unfre- 
quently  occurred.  In  the  case  which  we  are  about  to 
consider,  Demosthenes'  client  had  been  struck  off  the 
register  of  his  township  on  the  occasion  of  a  revision. 
The  man's  father  had  been  taken  a  prisoner  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  Peloponnesian  War;  and  having 
lived  some  years  "in  foreign  parts,"  he  spoke  Attic 
rather  indifferently.  However,  on  his  return  to 
Athens,  he  had  resumed  his  citizenship;  and  trans- 
mitted it,  without  question,  as  it  is  alleged,  to  his 
son.    He  was  very  poor,  and  he  and  his  wife  had  to 

*  Speech  against  Eubulides. 


150  DEMOSTHENES. 

eke  out  a  livelihood  by  the  humblest  of  occupations. 
His  son,  it  seems,  had  made  enemies  in  his  parish, 
and  among  them  one  Eubulides,  against  whom  he 
had  given  evidence  in  a  court  of  justice.  Eubulides, 
when  he  became  mayor  of  the  township,  had  the  reg- 
isters revised,  and  contrived  to  get  the  man's  name 
struck  off.  He  managed  this  by  a  sort  of  trick.  The 
revision  of  the  register  took  place  at  Athens,  from 
which  the  township  was  about  iive  miles  distant.  A 
good  deal  of  time  was  wasted  in  making  speeches  and 
drawing  up  resolutions;  and  the  case  of  Demosthenes' 
client  was  taken  last  of  all.  It  was  now  dark,  and 
all  but  about  thirty  members  of  the  township  had 
gone  home — and  these,  it  is  said,  were  in  the  interest 
of  Eubulides.  When  the  poor  man's  name  was  called, 
Eubulides  started  to  his  feet,  assailed  him  with  a  vol- 
ley of  abuse,  and  insisted  on  a  vote  of  expulsion.  It 
was  useless  to  ask  for  an  adjournment;  the  business 
was  hurried  through,  and  sixty  ballot-balls  were 
found  in  the  box  against  him,  though  it  seems  that 
only  thirty  townsmen  were  present.  The  result  was 
utter  ruin  to  the  man.  Loss  of  citizenship  meant  so- 
cial death,  and  probably  slavery.  He  makes  through 
his  counsel  a  piteous  appeal  to  the  jury,  and  says  that 
if  their  verdict  is  adverse  he  shall  commit  suicide, 
that  he  may  at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of  being 
buried  by  his  relatives  in  his  native  country.  "I 
have  been  shamefully  treated  by  this  Eubulides" — so 
he  begins;  "and  I  pray  you,  considering  the  great 
importance  of  the  present  trial,  and  the  disgrace  and 
ruin  which  attend  conviction,  to  hear  me,  as  you 
have  my  opponent  in  silence,"  Further  on  in  his 
speech  he  touches  on  his  poverty,  and  the  humble 
way  in  which  his  family  maintain  themselves. 


DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAR.  151 

"  We  confess  that  we  sell  ribbons,  and  live  not  in  the 
way  we  could  wish.  We  are  so  low  down  in  the  world 
that  our  opponent  may  go  out  of  his  way  to  abuse  us. 
It  seems  to  me  that  our  traiRcking  in  the  market-place 
is  the  strongest  proof  of  the  falsity  of  this  man's 
charges.  My  mother,  he  says,  sold  ribbons  in  the 
market-place.  Well,  if  she  was  an  alien,  they  should 
have  inspected  the  market  tolls,  and  shown  whether 
she  paid  the  alien's  toll,  and  to  what  country  she  be- 
longed. If  she  was  a  slave,  the  person  who  bought 
her  or  the  person  who  sold  her,  should  have  been 
called  to  give  evidence.  Then  he  has  said  she  was  a 
nurse.  We  do  not  deny  she  was,  in  those  evil  days* 
when  all  our  people  were  badly  off.  But  you  will  find 
many  women  who  are  citizens  taking  children  to  nurse. 
Of  course,  if  we  had  been  rich,  we  should  not  have 
sold  ribbons,  or  have  been  at  all  in  distress.  But 
what  has  that  to  do  with  my  descent?  Pray  do  not 
scorn  the  poor  (their  poverty  is  a  sufficient  misfortune 
for  them),  much  less  those  who  try  to  get  an  honest 
livelihood.  Poverty  compels  free  men  to  do  many 
mc^an  and  servile  acts,  for  which  they  deserve  to  be 
pitied  rather  than  to  be  ruined.  They  tell  me  that 
many  wcmen,  citizens  by  birth,  have  become  both 
nurses  and  wool-dressers  and  vintagers,  owing  to  the 
misfortunes  of  our  country  at  that  period.  I  have  con- 
fidence in.  my  case,  and  I  come  as  an  appellant  to  your 
tribunal  for  protection.  I  know  that  the  courts  of  law 
are  more  powerful  not  only  than  my  fellow-townsmen, 
but  even  than  the  Council  of  the  popular  Assembly; 
and  justly  so— for  your  verdicts  are  in  every  respect 
most  righteous." 

*  The  last  years  of  the  Peloponuesian  War. 


152  DEMOSTHENES. 

He  concludes  his  address  to  the  jury  with  the  threat 
of  suicide  already  mentioned. 

One  more  of  these  cases  must  suffice.  It  is  an 
amusing  one— an  action,  as  we  should  say,  for  assault 
and  battery.  There  were,  it  seems,  occasional  out- 
bursts of  rowdyism  even  at  refined  Athens,  and  the 
police  were  not  always  "on  the  spot"  to  repress  them. 
Some  of  the  '*  fast  "young  men  about  town  formed 
themselves  into  clubs— like  the  "  Mohock  Club  "  of  the 
last  century,  whose  lawless  proceedings  '^"?  the  subject 
of  one  of  the  numbers  of  the  'Spectator.'*  "An 
outrageous  ambition  (as  the  '  Spectator'  says)  of  doing 
all  possible  hurt  to  their  fellow-creatures  was  the  great 
cement  of  thi'ir  assemblies,  and  the  only  q^iliiication 
required  in  the  members."  There  was  a  ( '  .';  Athens 
which  called  itself  the  Triballi,  the  name  oi  one  of  the 
wildest  and  most  savage  tribes  of  Thrace.  The  mem- 
bers of  this  delightful  fraternity  used  to  commit  all 
manner  of  horrid  and  indecent  outrages  on  inoffciisivd^ 
citizens  as  they  were  taking  the  evening  air  or  return- 
ing home  from  parties.  One  Conon  and  his  sons 
specially  distinguished  themselves.  Their  victim  on 
one  occasion  retained  Demosthenes  for  his  counsel. 
They  had  all  been  on  foreign  military  service  together, 
and  it  was  then  that  the  practical  jokes  and  annoy- 
ances were  begun  of  which  Demosthenes'  client  com- 
plains. Conon  and  his  sjt  would  drink  all  day  after 
lunch;  and  so  by  dinner-time  they  were  only  fit  for 
drunken  frolics.  "At  first,"  the  plaintiff  says,  "they 
played  tricks  on  his  servants;  at  last  on  himself  and 
his  party.  They  would  pretend  that  our  servants 
annoyed  tjiem    with    smoke    in  cooking,   and    were 

*  No.  334. 


^  DEMOSTHENES  AT  THE  BAR.  153 

saucy;  then  they  beat  them,  and  played  all  sorts  of 
dirty,  brutal  jokes  on  them.  We  expressed  our  dis- 
gust; and  when  they  insulted  us,  we  all  went  in  a  body 
to  the  general,  who  gave  them  a  severe  reprimand." 
In  this  manner  a  very  sore  feeling  gi-ew  up;  and  when 
they  all  returned  lo  Athens,  the  assault  took  place 
whicli  was  the  ground  for  the  action. 

"When  I  had  got  back  to  Athens,"  the  plaintiff 
says,  "I  was  taking  a  walk  one  evening  in  the  market- 
place with  a  iiicnd  of  my  own  age,  when  Ctesias, 
Conon's  son,  passed  us  very  much  intoxicated.  Seeing 
us,  he  made  an  exckmation  like  a  drunken  man  mut- 
tering something  indistinctly  to  himself,  and  went  on 
his  way.  There  was  a  drinking-party  near,  at  the 
house  of  Pamphllus,  the  fuller.  Conon  and  many 
others  were  there.  Ctesias  got  them  to  leave  the  party 
and  go  with  him  to  the  man^et-place.  We  were  near 
Leocorium  "  (a  small  temple)  "when  we  encountered 
them.  As  we  came  up,  one  of  them  rushed  on  my 
friend  and  held  him.  Conoh  and  another  tripped  up 
my  heels,  and  threw  me  into  the  mud,  and  jumped  on 
me,  and  kicked  me  with  such  violence  that  my  lip  was 
cut  through  and  my  eye  closed  up.  In  this  plight  they 
left  me,  unable  to  rise  or  speak.  As  I  lay  I  heard  them 
use  dreadful  language,  some  of  which  I  should  be 
sorry  to  repeat  to  you.  One  thing  you  shall  hear.  It 
proves  Conon's  malice,  and  that  he  was  the  ringleader 
in  the  affair.  He  crowed,  mimicking  fighting-cocks 
when  they  have  won  a  battle;  atid  his  companions 
bade  him  clap  his  elbow  against  his  sides,  like  wings. 
I  was  afterwards  found  by  some  persons  who  came 
that  way,  and  carried  home  wihout  my  cloak,  which 
these  men  had  carried  off.  When  they  got  to  the 
door,  my  mother  and  the  uiaid-servants  began  crying 


154  DEMOSTHENES. 

and  bewailing.  I  was  carried  with  some  difficulty  to  a 
bath;  they  washed  me  all  over,  and  then  showed  me  to 
the  doctor." 

It  seems  to  have  struck  Demosthenes  that  possibly 
some  of  the  jury  would  be  inclined  to  laugh  at  this 
somewhat  ludicrously  pathetic  picture. 

"Will  you  laugh,"  he  makes  his  client  say,  "and 
let  Conon  off,  because  he  says  we  are  a  band  of  merry 
fellows  who,  in  our  adventures  and  amours,  strike  and 
break  the  neck  of  any  one  we  please?  I  trust  not. 
None  of  you  would  have  laughed  if  you  had  been 
present  when  I  was  dragged  and  stripped  and 
kicked,  and  carried  to  the  home  which  I  had  left 
strong  and  well ;  and  my  mother  rushed  out,  and  the 
women  cried  and  wailed  as  if  a  man  had  died  in  the 
house,  so  that  some  of  the  neighbors  sent  to  ask  what 
was  the  matter. " 

Conon  and  his  associates  may  well  have  been  a 
terror  to  peaceable  citizens,  if  we  may  trust  the  fol- 
lowing little  sketch  of  their  proceedings: 

*'Many  of  you  know  the  set.  There's  the  gre}'- 
headed  man,  who  all  day  long  has  a  solemn  frown  on 
his  brows,  and  wears  a  coarse  mantle  and  single  soled 
shoes.  But  when  they  get  together,  they  stick  at  no 
wickedness  or  disgraceful  conduct.  "  These  are  their 
fine  and  spirited  sayings:  '  Shan't  we  bear  witness  for 
one  another?'  'Dosen't  it  become  friends  and  com- 
rades?' '  What  will  he  bring  against  you  that  you're 
afraid  of?'  'Some  men  say  they  saw  him  beaten?' 
We'll  say,  'You  never  touched  him.'  'Stripped  of 
his  coat?'  We'll  say,  'They  began.'  *  His  lip  was 
sewed  up?'  We'll  say,  'Your  head  was  broken.' 
Remember,"  solemnly  adds  the  plaintiff,  "  I  pro- 
duce medical  evidence ;  they  do  not — for  they  can  get 


DEMOSTHESES  AT  THE  BAR.  155 

no  evidence  against  me  but  what    is  furnished    by 
theiiivselves. " 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  jury  did  not  laugh,  but 
were  persuaded  by  Demosthenes  to  make  an  example 
of* such  offenders.  Blackguardism  could  hardly  go 
further  tlian  to  rob  a  man  of  his  cloak,  in  addition  to 
beating  and  kicking  him.  The  Athenian  rowdy,  if 
Conon  and  his  set  were  fair  and  average  types  of  the 
class,  certainly  deserved  little* mercy. 


CONCLUBIOK 

Demosthenes  is  one  of  those  men  concerning  whom, 
both  as  a  statesman  and  an  omtor,  there  cannot  be 
much  difference  of  opinion.  As  a  statesman,  he  is 
unanimously  eulogized  hj  modern  historians  of  tlie 
first  rank — such  as  Thirwall,  Grote,  andCurtius.  Every- 
one who  sees  anything  to  esteem  and  admire  in  old 
Greek  life,  must  esteem  and  admire  Demosthenes.  His 
political  career  was  a  consistent  one.  He  clung  to  and 
worked  for  one  idea.  That  idea  was  a  free  and  inde- 
pendent Greece,  of  which  his  own  Athens  had,  morally 
and  intellectually,  the  right  to  be  head.  It  was  not, 
as  we  have  seen,  the  view  of  Isocrates;  nor  was  it  after- 
wards that  of  the  historian  Polybius.  Both  these  men 
refused  to  believe  that  Greece  could  any  longer  be 
what  she  had  been.  Both  were  honest  and  con- 
scientious thinkers;  but  we  can  never  have  quite  the 
same  feeling  towards  the  man  who  is  inclined  to 
despair  of  a  great  cause  as  we  have  towards  him  who 
will  persist  in  hoping  against  hope.  It  was  this  which 
Demosthenes  did  through  life  amid  many  discouraga- 
ments;  and  this  gives  him  a  moral  greatness  which  we 
believe  posterity  will  always  recognize.  Such  a  man 
would  be  sure  in  his  public  speeches  to  appeal  to  con- 
science, to  the  moral  sense,  and  to  a  lofty  patriotism. 

156 


CONCLUSION.  157 

The  appeals  may  have  often  fallen  dead;  but  he  could 
not  help  believing  that  there  was  still  a  spirit  in  his 
countrymen  which,  if  rightly  invoked,  might  yet  be 
roused,  and  stir  them  to  the  deeds  of  their  forefathers. 
This  was  the  faith  of  Demosthenes.  This  it  was  which 
made  him  dislike  and  distrust  even  the  noble  specula- 
tions and  philosophy  of  Plato.  These,  he  felt— as 
many  an  Englisman  might  have  felt — would  tend  to 
cany  Athenians  away  from  the  practical  sphere  of 
politics  into  a  shadowy  realm  of  ideas.  Athens,  he 
thought,  ought  still  to  assert  her  greatness  and  dignity, 
and  he  had  something  in  regard  to  her  of  the  feeling 
which  Virgil  has  expressed  in  the  well-known  line: 

"Tu  regere  Imperio  populos,  Romane,  memento."* 

As  an  orator  he  has,  almost  without  question,  been 
unrivaled.  Lord  Brougham,  in  his  dissertation  on  the 
oratory  of  the  ancients  confidently  pronounces  this 
opinion,  and  we  are  not  aware  that  there  is  or  has  been 
any  dissent  from  it.  His  eloquence  was  the  joint  pro- 
duct of  natural  genius  and  elaborate  study.  Quintil- 
ian  says,  on  the  whole  truly,  that  Cicero  owed  more 
to  study,  and  Demosthenes  to  nature.  Still,  as  we 
have  seen,  Demosthenes  did  his  best  to  perfect  his  great 
natural  gifts  by  the  most  assiduous  application.  His 
industry  was  prodigious.  He  left  behind  him  a  collec- 
tion of  exordia,  or  introductions  to  speeches,  which  it 
seems  that  Cicero  had  by  him.  He  was  continually 
revising  his  words  and  phrases.  All  his  speeches,  as 
far  as  we  know,  were  the  result  of  careful  preparation. 
His  speaking  exhibited  great  varieties.  His  opponent  is 
often  scathed  with  an  eloquence  not  unlike  that  of  the 

*  •'Thine,  Roman,  be  the  claim  to  rule  the  world." 


15S  DEMOSTHENES. 

late  Lord  Derby,  when  his  words  were  inspired  by  a 
strong  moral  indignation.  Some  of  his  speeches 
remind  us  of  the  subtle  and  ingenious  reasoning  of 
Mr.  Gladstone.  Such  is  the  speech  we  have  noticed, 
in  which  he  argues  for  the  repeal  of  the  law  of 
Leptines.  In  others,  again—the  Olynthiac  orations 
especially,  and  that  for  the  Crown  against  ^schines — 
we  have  passages  which  recall  to  our  memories  the 
impassioned  fervor  of  some  of  the  most  eloquent 
speeches  of  Mr.  Bright.  There  is  the  same  impressive 
appeal  to  the  human  conscience,  and  to  the  worth  and 
grandeur  of  freedom.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  a 
most  dexterous  master  of  his  art.  James  Mill  used  to 
point  out  to  his  famous  son  "how,  first,  Demosthenes 
said  everything  important  to  his  purpose  at  the  exact 
moment  when  he  had  brought  the  minds  of  his  hearers 
into  the  state  most  fitted  to  receive  it ;  second,  how  he 
insinuated,  gradually  and  indirectly,  ideas  which 
would  have  roused  opposition  if  directly  presented." 
Generally,  he  was  a  thoroughly  successful  speaker, 
winning  many  a  triumph  in  the  Assembly  and  the  law 
court,  and  finally  discomfiting  his  able  rival.  And  it 
must  indeed  have  been  ars  inspiriting  recollection  to 
him  when  he  looked  back  to  Chaeroneia,  where,  thanks 
to  his  eloquence,  Athenians  a'^d  Thebans  fought  side 
by  side  in  the  cause  of  Greece. 

END   OF  DEMOS^"' 


AEISTOTLE 


SIR  ALEXANDER  GRANT,  BART.,  LL.D. 

PRINCIPAL  OP  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  EDINBURGH 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN'  B.  ALDEN.  PUBLISHER. 

1883. 


ooiJrTEJsrTs. 


CHAP.  PAGK 

I.  The  Life  of  Aristotle 1 

n.  The  Works  of  Aristotle 26 

HL  The  "Organon"  of  Aristotle 44 

rv.  Aristotle's  "Rhetoric"  and  "Art  of  Poetry".    67 

V.  Aristotle's  "Ethics" 87 

VI.  Aristotle's  "Politics" 102 

"Vn.  The  Natural  Philosophy  of  Aristotle '...  113 

Vni.  The  Biology  of  Aristotle 128 

IX.  The  Metaphysics  of  Aristotle 141 

X.  Aristotle  Since  the  Christian  Era 157 


ARISTOTLE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  LIFE   OP  ARISTOTLE. 

The  dates  of  the  chief  events  in  the  life  of  Aristotle, 
extracted  from  the  "  Chronology"  of  Apollodorus  (140 
B.C.),  have  been  handed  down  to  us  by  Diogenes  Laer- 
tiusin  his  "  Lives  of  the  Philosophers;"  and  from  various 
other  sources  it  is  possible  to  fill  in  the  outline  thus  af- 
forded, if  not  with  certain  facts,  at  all  events  with 
reasonable  probabilities.  Aristotle's  own  writings  are 
almost  entirely  devoid  of  personal  references,  yet  in 
them  we  can  trace,  to  some  extent,  the  progress  and  de- 
velopment of  his  mind.  On  the  whole,  we  know  quite 
as  much  about  him,  personally,  as  about  most  of  the 
ancient  Greek  writers. 

Aristotle  was  born  in  the  year  384  b  c,  at  Stageira,  a 
Grecian  colony  and  seaport  town  on  the  Strymonic  Gulf 
in  Thrace,  not  far  from  Mount  Athos — and,  what  is 
more  important,  not  far  from  the  frontier  of  Macedonia, 
and  from  Pella,  the  residence  of  the  Macedonian  King 
Amyntas.  To  Stageira,  his  birthplace,  he  owed  the 
world-famous  appellation  of  "the  Stagirite,"  given  to 
him  by  scholiasts  and  schoolmen  in  later  days.  It  was 
fancied  by  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt  that  Aristotle  exhib- 
its certain  un-Greek  characteristics  in  his  neglect  of  form 


2  TEE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

and  grace  in  writing,  and  that  this  is  attributable  to  his 
having  been  bora  and  brouglit  up  in  Thrace.  But,  on 
tlie  other  liand,  Aristotle's  family  were  purely  Hellenic, 
and  probably  the  colonists  of  Stageira  lived  in  strict  con- 
formity with  Greek  ideas,  and  not  without  contempt  for 
the  surrounding  "barbarians."  Even  the  court  of 
Macedonia,  in  the  neighborhood,  were  phil-Hellenic  in 
their  tastes,  and  entertained  Greek  artists  and  men  of 
letters.  And  Aristotle  shows  no  trace  in  his  writings 
of  ever  having  known  any  language  beside  Greek. 
Probably  the  mere  locality  of  his  birth  produced  but 
little  influence  upon  him,  except  so  far  as  it  led  to  his 
subsequent  connection  with  the  court  of  Macedon. 
His  father,  Nicomaclms,  was  physician  to  King  Amyn- 
tas,  and  it  is  possible  that  the  youthful  Aristotle  was 
taken  at  times  to  the  court,  and  thus  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  his  future  patron,  Philip  of  Macedon,  who  was 
about  his  own  age.  But  all  through  the  time  of  Aristo- 
tle's boyhood  affairs  in  Macedonia  were  troubled  and 
improsperous.  Amyntas  was  an  unsuccessful  ruler,  and 
brought  his  country  to  the  verge  of  extinction  in  a  war 
with  the  Illyrians.  Aristotle,  as  a  youth,  cannot  have 
had  any  inducement  to  take  an  interest  in  Macedonian 
politics.  Up  to  tlie  time  when  he  left  his  native  city 
there  had  appeared  no  indication  of  that  which  after- 
wards occurred — that  Macedonia  would  conquer  the 
East.  aiid.  become  ine  mistress  of  the  entire  liberties  oi 
Greece 

But  there  is  one  significant  tradition  about  Aristotl* 
which  suggests  circumstances  likely  to  have  produced 
in  early  life  a  considerable  influence  upon  3iis  habits 
and  pursuits.  His  father  is  said  to  have  been  an  "As 
clepiad "— that  is,  he  belonged  to  that  distinguished 
caste  who  claimed  to  be  the  descendants  of  Esculapius. 


ARISTOTLE.  8 

Now  we  have  it,  on  the  authorit}'-  of  Galen,*  that  "  it 
was  the  custom  in  Asclepiad  families  for  the  boys  to  be 
trained  by  their  father  in  the  practice  of  dissection, 
just  as  regularly  as  boys  in  other  families  learn  to  read 
and  write."  If  Aristotle  had  really  been  trained  from 
boyhood  in  the  manner  thus  described,  we  can  under- 
stand how  great  an  impulse  he  would  have  received  to 
those  physiological  researches  which  formed  so  impor- 
tant a  part  of  his  subsequent  achievements.  But  in 
one  place  of  his  writings  ("On  the  Parts  of  Animals,"!. 
V.  7),  he  speaks  of  the  "extreme  repugnance"  with 
which  one  necessarily  sees  "veins,  and  flesh,  and  other 
such-like  parts,"  in  the  human  subject.  This  does  not 
show  the  hardihood  of  a  practiced  dissector.  But  Aris- 
totle's youthful  dissections,  if  made  at  all,  were  doubt- 
less made  on  the  lower  animals.  At  all  events,  we  may 
perhaps  safely  conclude  about  him,  that  he  received 
from  his  father  an  hereditary  tendency  towards  physio- 
logical study.  But  in  addition  to  this  tendency,  Aris- 
totle must  doubtless  have  early  manifested  an  interest  in, 
and  capacity  for.  abstract  philosophy. 

We  now  come  to  the  second  epoch  in  his  life.  About 
the  year  367  B.C.,  when  he  was  seventeen  years  old,  his 
father  having  recently  died,  he  was  sent  by  his  guard- 
ian, Proxenus  of  Atarueus,  to  complete  his  studies,  at 
Athens,  "  the  metropolis  of  wisdom."  f  There  he  con- 
tinued to  reside  for  twenty  years,  during  the  greater 
part  of  which  time  he  attended  the  school  of  philoso- 
phy which  Plato  had  founded  in  the  olive-groves  of 
Academus,  on  the  banks  of  the  Cephisus.  He  had 
probably  inherited  from  his  father  means  sufficient  for 


*  Quoted  by  Grote,  "  Aristotle,"  i.  4. 

t Plato,  "Protagoras,"  p.  337..   Professor  Jowett's  translation. 


4  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

his  support,  so  that  he  could  live  "without  care  for  tij<3 
acquirement  of  anything  save  knowledge.  But  in  the 
acquisition  of  this  he  manifested  a  zeal  unsurpassed  in 
the  annals  of  study.  Among  his  fellow  pupils  in  the 
Academe  he  is  said  to  have  got  the  sobriquet  oi  "the 
Header;"  while  Plato  himself  called  him  "the  Mind  of 
the  School,"  in  recognition  of  his  quick  and  powerful 
intelligence.  In  order  to  win  time  even  from  sleep  Aris- 
totle is  said  to  have  invented  a  plan  of  sleeping  with  a 
ball  in  his  hand,  so  held  over  a  brazen  dish  that  when- 
ever his  grasp  relaxed  the  ball  would  descend  with 
a  clang,  and  arouse  him  to  the  resumption  of  his 
labors. 

Plato's  philosophy  was  absolutely  pre-eminent  in 
Greece  at  this  time.  It  embodied  within  itself  all  that 
was  best  in  the  doctrine  and  the  spirit  of  Socrates,  and 
beyond  it  there  was  nothing,  except  the  mystical 
theories  of  the  Pythagoreans  (the  best  elements  in  which 
Plato  had  assimilated),  and  the  materialistic  theories  of 
the  Atomists,  which  Plato,  and  afterwards  Aristotle, 
controverted.  The  writings  of  Aristotle  are  quite  con- 
sistent with  the  tradition  that  he  w^as  for  twenty  years 
a  pupil  of  the  Academic  school.  They  show  a  long 
list  of  thoughts  and  expressions  borrow^ed  from  the 
works  of  Plato,  and  also  not  unfrequently  refer  to  the 
oral  teaching  of  Plato.  They  contain  a  logical,  ethical, 
political,  and  metaphysical  philosophy,  which  is  evi- 
dently, with  some  modifications,  the  organization  and 
development  of  rich  materials  often  rather  suggested 
than  worked  out  in  the  Platonic  dialogues.  Aristotle 
thus,  in  constructing  a  system  of  knowledge  which  was 
destined  immensely  to  influence  the  thoughts  of  man- 
kind, became,  in  the  first  place,  the  disciple  of  Plato 
and  the  intellectual  heir  of  Socrates;  and  summed  up 


ARISTOTLE.  5 

all  the  best  that  had  been  arrived  at  by  the  previous 
philosophers  of  Greece. 

The  personal  relationships  which  arose  between 
Aristotle  and  his  master  Plato  have  furnished  matter  for 
Uncertain  traditions  and  for  much  discussion.  There 
seems,  however,  to  be  no  ground  for  sustaining  the 
charge  of  *' ingratitude"  against  Aristotle.  The  truth 
was  probably  somewhat  as  follows:  Aristotle,  while 
engaged  in  imbibing  deeply  the  philosophical  thoughts 
of  Plato,  gradually  developed  also  his  own  individuality 
and  independence  of  mind.  And  the  natural  bias  of 
his  intellect  was  certainly  in  a  different  direction  from 
that  of  Plato.  It  has  been  said  that  "every  man  is 
born  either  a  Platonist  or  an  Aristotelian ;"  and  it  would 
be  very  fortunate  if  that  were  literally  true,  for  then 
every  man  would  be  born  with  a  noble  type  of  intellect. 
But  it  is  no  doubt  correct  to  say  that  the  Platonic  and 
the  Aristotelian  type  of  intellect  are  distinct  and  diver- 
gent. They  have  in  common  the  keen  and  unwearied 
pressure  after  truth,  but  they  seek  the  truth  under  dif- 
ferent aspects.  Plato  was  ever  aspiring  to  intuitions  of 
a  truth  which  in  this  world  could  never  be  wholly  re- 
vealed,— a  truth  of  which  glimpses  only  could  be  ob- 
tained, partly  by  the  most  abstract  powers  of  thought, 
partly  by  the  imagination.  While  richly  endowed  with 
humor  and  the  dramatic  faculty,  and  the  most  trench- 
ant insight  into  the  fallacies  of  mankind,  Plato  was  not 
content  with  aiming  at  those  demonstrations  which 
could  be  stated  once  for  all,  but  he  rather  sought  analo- 
gies and  hints  of  a  truth  which  can  never  be  definitely 
expressed.  Eternity,  the  life  of  the  gods,  the  supra- 
sensible  world  of  "  pure  ideas,"  were  of  more  reality 
and  importance  to  him  than  the  affairs  of  this  life. 
While  he  was  the  greatest  and  most  original  of  meta- 


6  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

physical  philosophers,  he  never  ceased  to  he  a  poet,  and, 
to  some  extent,  a  mystic. 

The  intellectual  cliaracteristics  of  Aristotle,  as  known 
to  us  from  his  works,  present  a  great  contrast  to  all 
this.  He  was  too  much  in  earnest,  and  at  the  same 
time  too  matter-of-fact,  to  allow  poetry  and  the  imagir 
nation  any  share  in  the  quest  for  truth.  He  had  no 
taste  for  half-lights;  and  with  regard  to  such  great 
questions  as  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the  nature  of 
God,  the  operation  of  Providence,  and  the  like,  it  is 
evident  that  so  far  from  preferring  these,  he  rather  kept 
aloof  from  them,  and  only  gave  cautious  and  grudging 
utterances  upon  them.  His  passion  was  for  detinite 
knowledge,  especially  knowledge  so  methodized  that  it 
could  he  stated  in  the  form  of  a  general  principle,  or 
law.  He  thought  that  to  obtain  a  general  principle  in 
which  knowledge  was  summed  up,  on  any  subject,  was 
of  the  utmost  importance;*  that  such  a  principle  was  a 
.possession  for  all  future  time,  that  future  generations 
would  apply  to  it  and  work  it  out  in  detail,  and  thus 
that  it  would  form  the  nucleus  of  a  science.  And  this 
was  the  daring  aim  of  Aristotle — no  less  than  the 
foundation  of  all  the  sciences.  We  shall  have  occasion 
to  point  out  subsequently  the  imperfections  of  Aristo- 
tle's method  in  physical  science  when  compared  with 
that  of  modern  times.  But  for  all  that,  his  spirit  was 
essentially  scientific,  and  for  the  sake  of  science  and  the 
naked  truth  he  discarded  all  beauty  and  grace  of  style. 
Plato  on  the  other  hand  was  an  artist,  and  clothed  all 
his  thoughts  in  beauty;  and  if  there  be  (as  there  surely 
is)  f  a  truth  which  is  above  the  truth  of  scientific  knowl- 


*  See  Soph.  "  Elench."  xxxii.  13;  "Eth."  I.  vii.  17-21. 
t  See  Lotze's  "  Microcosmus,"  Einleitung. 


ARISTOTLE.  7 

edge,  that  was  the  truth  after  which  Plato  aspired. 
Aristotle's  aspirations  were  for  methodized  experience 
and  the  definite. 

It  is  easy  to  understand,  or  imagine,  how  two  great 
minds  with  such  divergent  tendencies  would  be  unable 
to  continue  forever  to  stand  to  each  other  in  the  rela- 
tion of  pupil  to  teacher.  For  a  time,  no  doubt,  the 
divergence  would  not  be  discovered.  Aristotle  at  first 
would  appear  only  as  "the  mind"  of  Plato's  school. 
And  his  first  attempts  at  philosophical  writing  appear 
to  have  been  made  in  the  form  of  dialogues  in  some- 
what feeble  imitation  of  the  masterpieces  of  Plato. 
We  shall  speak  hereafter  of  this  early  and  lighter  class 
of  Aristotle's  writings.  He  may  have  adhered  for 
several  years  to  this  mode  of  composition.  But  all  the 
while  his  powers,  his  knowledge,  and  his  methods  of 
thought  were  maturing,  and  he  was  working  his  way 
to  the  conception  of  a  quite  different  mode  of  setting 
forth  philosophy.  Gradually,  as  he  grasped,  or  thought 
he  had  grasped,  all  that  Plato  had  to  impart,  his  mind 
would  tend  to  dwell  more  on  those  aspects  of  Plato's 
thought  with  which  he  did  not  sympathize.  He  would 
especially  feel  a  sort  of  impatience  at  the  license  al- 
lowed to  the  imagination  to  intrude  itself  into  the 
treatment  of  philosophic  questions, — at  the  substitution 
of  gorgeous  myths  and  symbolical  figures  for  plain 
exact  answers  of  the  understanding.  This  feeling  of 
impatience  broke  out  in  a  polemic  against  that  doctrine 
of  the  eternal  "Ideas"  or  Forms  of  Things,  which 
appears  somewhat  variously  set  forth  in  Plato's  dia- 
logues, especially  in  "  Timaeus,"  "PhsBdrus,"  and  "Re- 
public," and  which  doubtless  formed  a  prominent 
topic  in  Plato's  discourses  to  his  school.    We  are  told 


8  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

by  Proclus*that  Aristotle  "proclaimed  loudly  in  his 
dialogues  that  he  was  uuable  to  sympathize  with  the 
doctrine  of  Ideas,  even  though  his  opposition  to  it 
should  be  attributed  to  a  factious  spirit."  The  import 
of  that  doctrine  was  to  disparage  the  world  of  sensible 
objects.  It  represented  that  when  we,  by  means  of 
our  senses,  apprehend,  or  think  that  we  apprehend, 
particular  objects,  w^e  are  like  men  sitting  in  a  dimly- 
lighted  subterraneous  cavern,  and  staring  at  shadows  on 
the  wall ;  that  the  world  of  sense  is  a  world  of  shadows, 
but  that  a  true  world  exists, — a  world  of  Ideas;  that 
nothing  is  really  good  or  beautiful  in  the  world  of 
sense,  but  what  we  call  good  or  beautiful  things  are 
those  which  have  a  faint  semblance  to  the  Idea  of  the 
good  or  the  beautiful,  and  thus  bring  back  to  our  souls 
the  remembrance  of  those  Ideas,  which  we  once -saw  in 
our  ante-natal  condition;  that  the  Ideas  or  Forms  are 
archetypes,  in  accordance  with  which  the  Creator  framed 
this  world;  that  they  are  not  only  the  cause  of  qualities 
and  attributes  in  things,  such  as  goodness,  justice, 
equality,  and  the  like,  but  also  they  are  heads  of  classes 
or  universals,  and  that  they  alone  have  complete  reality, 
while  the  individuals,  constituting  the  classes  at  the  head 
of  which  they  stand,  only  "  participate"  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent in  real  existence.  Such  were  some  of  the  features 
of  Plato's  celebrated  doctrine  of  Ideas.  That  he  did 
not  himself  hold  very  strongly  or  dogmatically  to  its 
details  may  be  judged  from  the  fact  that  in  two  of  his  dia- 
logues ("  Parmenides"  and  "  Sophist")  he  himself  points 
out,  and  does  not  remove,  many  difficulties  which  attach 
to  them.  But  the  main  gist  of  the  doctrine  was  to 
assert  what  is  called  Realism;  and  this,  under  one  form 

*  Quoted  by  Philoponus,  ii.  S. 


ARISTOTLE.  9 

or  anotlier,  Plato  always  maintained.     "When  Aristotle 
attacked  the  doctrine  of  Ideas,  there  was  the  first  begin- 
ning of  that  controversy  between  the  Realists  and  the 
Nominalists,  which  so  much  excited  the  minds  of  men 
in  the  middle  ages.     Realism,  making  reason  indepen- 
dent of  the  senses,  asserts  that  the  universal  is  more  real 
than  the  particular, — that,  for  instance,  the  universal 
idea  of  "man"  in  general  is  more  real,  and  can  be 
grasped  by  the  mind  with  greater  certainty,  than  the 
conception  of  any  individual  man.    Nominalism,  on  the 
contrary,  asserts  the  superior  reality  of  individual  ob- 
jects, and  turns  the  universal  into  a  mere  name.     Now 
it  was  quite  natural  for  Aristotle,  with  his  tendency  to- 
wards physical  science  and  experiment,  and  the  amass- 
ing of  particular  facts,  to  take  the  Nominalist  view,  so 
far  as  to  assert  the  reality  of  individual  objects.     But 
there  is  reason  for  doubting  that  he  ever  became  a 
thorough  and  consistent  Nominalist.     For  the  present  it 
is  sufficient  to  note  that  at  the  outset  of  his  philosophical 
career  he  appears  to  have  made  an  onslaught,  in  sever.al 
dialogues  which  he  wrote  for  the  purpose,  on  Plato's 
doctrine  of  Ideas.    In  three  passages  of  his  extant  workf* 
("Eth."  I.  vi. ;  "Met."  I.  vi.,  XII.  iv.),  he  gives  sum- 
maries of  his  arguments  on  the  subject.     He  couches 
those  arguments  in  courteous  language,    and  in  one 
place  introduces  them  with  words  which  have   beep 
Latinized  into  the  well-known   phrase — Amicus  Plato, 
sed  magis  arnica  Veritas.     Yet  the  arguments  themselves 
appear  somewhat  captious.     And  there  may  have  been 
a  youthful  vehemence  in   the  mode  in  which  he  first 
urged  them.     Here  probably  first  appeared  "the  little 
rift  within  the  lute;"  this  was  the  beginning  of  that 
divergence  of  mind  and  attitude  which,  growing  wider, 
rendered  it  ultimately  impossible  tJiat  Aristotle  should 


10  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

be  chosen  to  succeed  Plato  as  inheritor  of  his  methcd 
and  head  of  the  Academic  school. 

In  another  set  of  circumstances  tradition  affords  us 
inilicalions  of  the  independence  and  self-confidence  of 
Aristotle  having  been  manifested  during  the  lifetime  of 
Plato.  In  his  extant  writings  Plato  speaks  so  disparag- 
ingly of  the  ai*t  of  Rhetoric,  that  we  can  hardly  fancy 
his  giving  any  encouragement  to  the  study  of  it  among 
his  disciples.  But  none  the  less  Aristotle  appears  to 
have  diligently  labored  in  this,  as  in  every  other  intel- 
lectual province  that  he  found  open.  Plato  would  not 
separate  Ilhbtoric  from  the  rhetorical  spirit;  he  regarded 
the  whole  thing  as  a  procedure  for  tickling  the  ears,  for 
flattering  crowds,  for  subordinating  truth  to  effect. 
Aristotle,  in  the  analytical  way  which  became  one  of  his 
chief  characteristics,  separated  the  method  of  Rhetoric 
from  the  uses  to  which  it  might  be  applied.  He  saw 
that  success  in  Rhetoric  depended  on  general  principles 
and  laws  of  the  human  mind,  and  that  it  would  be 
worth  while  to  draw  these  out  and  frame  them  into  a 
science,  especially  as  many  of  his  countrymen  had 
already  essayed  to  do  the  same,  though  imperfectly. 
He  maintained  that  the  study  of  the  methods  of  Rhetoric 
was  desirable  and  even  necessary  to  a  free  citizen,  for 
self-defense,  for  the  exposure  of  sophistry,  and  in  the 
interests  of  truth  itself.  Now,  the  greatest  school  of 
Rhetoric  in  all  Greece  was  at  this  period  held  in  Athens 
by  the  renowned  Isocrates,  who,  when  Aristotle  arrived 
at  Athens,  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  reputation.  He  was 
now  nearly  seventy  years  old,  but  continued  to  teach 
and  to  compose  with  almost  unabated  vigor  for  twenty- 
eight  years  more.  Isocrates  had  been  the  follower  of 
Socrates,  and  several  leading  Sophists  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  fifth  century  B.C. — Protagoras,  Prodicus,  Gor- 


ARISTOTLE.  11 

gias,  and  Theramenes — are  named  as  having  been  Lis 
teachers.*  He  was  a  dignified  old  man,  full  of  the  most 
elevated  sentiments.  Tiie  style  of  his  oratory  had  been 
formed  after  the  florid  Sicilian  school  of  Gorgias,  but 
was  more  severe  and  artistic  than  the  earlier  models  of 
that  school.  He  professed  to  inculcate  what  he  called 
"  philosophy,"  but  which  was  really  a  kind  of  thought 
standing  half-way  between  pure  speculative  search  for 
truth,  like  that  of  Plato,  and  the  merely  worldly  and 
practical  aims  of  the  Sophists.  It  was  a  manly  wisdom 
dealing  with  politics  and  morality,  analogous  to  the  re- 
flections on  such  subjects  in  which  Cicero  aficr wards 
indulged.  The  rhetorical  school  of  Isocratcs  drew 
pupils  from  all  parts  of  Greece,  from  Sicily,  and  even 
from  Pontus.  In  it,  says  Cicero,  "  the  eloquence  of  all 
Greece  was  trained  and  perfected."  The  pupils  re- 
mained in  it  sometimes  three  or  four  years;  they  paid  a 
fee  of  1000  drachmae  each  (=1000  francs,  or  £40);  and 
thus  in  his  long  life  the  master  became  one  of  the  most 
opulent  citizens  of  Athens.  "  Isocrates,"  says  Dionysus, 
"  had  the  educating  of  the  best  of  the  youth  of  Greece," 
and  so  many  of  his  scholars  became  afterwards  distin- 
guished in  various  ways — as  orators,  statesmen,  gen- 
erals, historians,  or  philosophers — that  a  list  of  them 
was  drawn  up  by  Hermij)pus.  Among  the  number 
was  Speusippus,  nephew  to  Plato,  and  afterwards  his 
successor  in  the  headship  of  the  Academy.  And  yet 
it  may  readily  be  believed  that  there  was  small  sym- 
pathy between  the  Academy  and  the  school  of  Isocrates, 
the  aims  of  the  two  being  so  very  different.  Plato  and 
his  followers  looked  down  with  more  or  less  contempt 


*  See  Professor  Jebb's  "  Attic  Orators  from  Antiphon  to  Isaeos," 
ii.  6. 


12  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

on  the  halfphilosopliiziiig  of  Isocrates,  And  at  last 
tlic  youthful  Aristotle  came  forward  as  a  champion, 
challenging  and  attacking  the  highly-reputed  veteran. 
Aristotle  is  said  to  have  parodied  on  this  occasion  a  lihe 
of  Euripides — 

"What!  must  I 
In  silence  leave  barbarians  to  speak  f 
Never! " 

and  to  have  taken  for  his  motto  the  words 

"What!  must  I 
In  silence  leave  Isocrates  to  speak  ?" 

The  acrimony  of  the  allusion  suggests  to  us  the  spirit 
in  which  he  opened  the  controversy.  He  seems  to  have 
assailed  the  matter  of  the  discourses  of  Isocrates,  as 
being  of  a  superficial  and  merely  oratorical  character, 
and  also  his  theory  of  the  art  of  rhetoric,  and  his  mode 
of  teaching  it.  The  strictures  of  Aristotle  were  an- 
swered by  Cephisodorus,  one  of  the  pupils  of  Isoc- 
rates, who  wrote  a  defense  of  his  master  in  four  books. 
Both  attack  and  reply  have  completely  perished.  Aris- 
totle appears  to  have  followed  up  his  theoretical  denun- 
ciation of  Isocrates  by  the  practical  step  of  opening  a 
school  of  Rhetoric  in  rivalry  to  his.  What  the  success 
of  this  enterprise  may  have  been  is  not  recorded.  There 
is  no  reason  for  supposing  that  the  young  Stagirite  at 
all  succeeded  in  impressing  the  Athenians  at  that  time 
with  his  superior  insight  into  the  laws  of  Rhetoric. 
The  real  value  and  scientific  pre-eminence  of  his  views 
came  out  in  the  immortal  treatise  on  Rhetoric,  which 
many  years  later  he  composed.  But  it  is  remarkable 
that  that  treatise,  while  full  of  references  to  Isocrates, 
bears  no  traces  of  any  ill  feeling  towards  him.  In  fact, 
it  would  seem  that  time  must  have  worked  a  certain 
change  in  the  character  of  Aristotle,  for  almost  the  only 


ARISTOTLE.  13 

glimpses  which  we  have  of  liim  during  his  earlier  resi- 
dence at  Athens  show  him  somewhat  petulantly  at- 
tacking both  Plato  and  Isocrates;  whereas  his  works 
which  we  possess,  and  which  were  written  later,  are 
calmly  impersonal  and  devoid  of  all  petulance  of  spirit. 
Plato  died  in  the  year  347  b.  c.  ,  and  we  find  that  in 
that  year  Aristotle,  together  with  his  fellow-disciple 
Xenocrates,  left  Athens,  and  went  to  reside  at  Atarueus, 
a  town  of  Asia  Minor.  This  migration  was  doubtless 
caused  by  the  choice  of  Speusippus,  Plato's  nephew, 
to  be  Leader  of  the  Academy.  However  natural  it  may 
have  been  that  Aristotle  should  be  held  disqualified  by 
incompatibility  of  opinions  for  becoming  the  representa- 
tive of  Plato,  still  it  may  have  been  unpleasant  to  him 
to  see  another  preferred  to  himself,  and  especially  one 
so  inferior  to  himself  in  intellect  as  Speusippus.  And 
Xenocrates  may  have  felt  something  of  the  same  kind 
on  his  own  account.  Accordingly  the  two  left  Athens 
together.  Aristotle  had  more  than  one  reason  for 
selecting  Atarneus  as  his  new  place  of  abode.  It  was 
the  home  of  Proxenus,  his  guardian,  of  whom  mention 
has  already  been  made ;  and  it  was  ruled  over  by  Her- 
meias,  an  enlightened  prince,  with  whom  both  Aris- 
totle and  Xenocrates  had  had  the  opportunity  of 
forming  a  philosophic  friendship.  The  history  of  Her- 
meias  was  remarkable :  he  had  been  the  slave  of  Eubu- 
lus,  the  former  despot  of  Atarneus.  As  happens  not 
uncommonly  in  the  East,  he  had  sprung  from  being 
slave  to  be  vizier,  and  thence  to  be  ruler  himself.  He 
governed  beneficently;  and,  his  mind  not  being  devoid 
of  philosophical  impulses,  he  had  come  to  Athens  and 
attended  the  lectures  of  Plato.  He  now  hospitably  re- 
ceived the  two  emigrants  from  Plato's  school,  and 
entertained  them  at  his  court  for  three  years,  during 


14  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

■which  time  he  bestowed  the  hand  of  Pythias,  his  niece, 
upon  Aristotle  in  marriage.  This  may  be  conceived  to 
have  been  a  happy  period  of  Aristotle's  life,  but  it  was 
cut  short  by  the  death  of  his  benefactor,  who  was 
treacherously  kidnapped  by  a  Greek  oflBcer  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Persians,  and  put  to  death.  Aristotle  after- 
wards recorded  his  admiration  for  Hermeias,  in  a  hymn 
or  paean  which  he  wrote  in  his  honor,  and  in  which  he 
likened  him  to  Hercules  and  the  Dioscuri,  and  other 
heioes  of  noble  endurance.  He  also  perhaps  alludes  to 
him  in  a  well-known  passage*  in  which  he  says  that 
"  a  good  man  does  not  become  a  friend  to  one  who  is 
in  a  superior  station  to  himself,  unless  that  superiority 
of  station  be  justified  by  superiority  of  merit."  If 
Aristotle  had  Hermeias,  his  own  former  friend,  in  his 
mind  when  he  wrote  this  passage,  he  must  have  gener- 
ously attributed  to  him  moral  qualities  superior  to  his 
own. 

On  flying  from  Atarneus,  as  they  were  now  obliged 
to  do,  Xenocrates  returned  to  Athens,  and  Aristotle 
took  up  his  abode  with  his  wife  at  Mitylene,  where  he 
lived  two  or  three  years,  until  he  was  invited  by  Philip 
of  Macedon  to  become  the  tutor  of  Alexander,  then  a 
boy  of  the  age  of  thirteen.  That  Aristotle,  the  prince 
of  philosophers  and  supreme  master  of  the  sphere  of 
knowledge,  should  be  called  upon  to  train  the  mind  of 
Alexander,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  seems  a  com- 
bination so  romantic,  that  it  has  come  to  be  thought 
that  it  must  have  been  the  mere  invention  of  some 
sophist  or  rhetorician.  This,  however,  is  an  unneces- 
sary skepticism,  for  antiquity  is  unanimous  in  accepting 
the  tradition,  and  there  are  no  circumstances  that  we 

♦  "  Ethics,"  Vm.  vi.  6. 


ARISTOTLE.  15 

know  of  which  are  inconsistent  with  it.  Aristotle's 
family  connection  with  the  royal  family  of  Macedon 
made  it  natural  that  now,  when  he  had  acquired  a  cer- 
tain reputation  in  Greece,  he  should  be  offered  this 
charge.  Unfortunately  no  information  has  been  handed 
down  to  us  as  to  the  way  in  which  he  performed  its 
duties.  History  is  silent  on  the  subject,  and  we  can- 
not even  gather  from  any  of  Aristotle's  own  writings 
his  views  as  to  the  education  of  a  prince;  the  treatise 
on  education,  which  was  to  have  formed  part  of  his 
"  Politics,"  has  reached  us  as  an  incomplete  or  mutilated 
fragment.  Nothing  that  is  recorded  of  Alexander  tends 
to  throw  d^ny  light  on  his  early  training,  except,  per- 
haps, his  interest  in  Homer  and  in  the  Attic  trage- 
dians, and  his  power  of  addressing  audiences  in  Greek, 
which  was,  of  course,  to  a  Macedonian  an  acquired 
language.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  Aristotle 
instructed  him  in  rhetoric,  and  imbued  him  with  Greek 
literature,  and  took  him  through  a  course  of  mathe- 
matics. Whether  he  attempted  anything  beyond  this 
"  secondary  instruction"  we  know  not.  But  it  would  be 
vain  to  look  for  traces  of  a  personal  and  intellectual 
influence  having  been  produced  by  the  teacher. on  the 
mind  of  his  pupil.  Alexander's  was  a  genius  of  that 
first-rate  order  that  grows  independently  of,  or  soon 
outgrows,  all  education.  His  mind  was  not  framed  to 
be  greatly  interested  in  science  or  philosophy;  he  was, 
as  the  First  Napoleon  said  of  himself,  tout  d  fait  un 
etre  politique;  and  even  during  part  of  the  period  of 
Aristotle's  tutelage,  he  was  associated  with  his  father 
in  the  business  of  the  State.  On  the  whole,  we  might 
almost  imagine  that  Aristotle's  functions  at  the  court 
of  Macedonia  were  light,  and  that  he  was  allowed  con- 
siderable leisure  for  the  quiet  prosecution  of  his  own 


16  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

great  undertakings.  He  seems,  however,  to  have  en- 
joyed the  full  confidence  and  favor  of  his  patrons,* 
and  to  have  retained  his  appointment  altogether  about 
five  years,  until  Philip  was  assassinated  in  the  year  336 
B.C.,  and  Alexander  became  King  of  Macedonia. 

For  a  year  after  the  death  of  Philip,  Aristotle  still 
remained,  residing  either  at  Pella  or  at  Stageira;  but 
of  course  no  longer  as  preceptor  to  Alexander,  whose 
mind  was  now  totally  absorbed  by  imperial  business 
and  plans  for  the  subjugation  of  all  the  peoples  of  the 
East, — while  his  own  mind  was  meditating  plans  differ- 
ent in  kind,  but  no  less  vast,  for  the  subjugation  of  all 
the  various  realms  of  knowledge.  In  335  b.c.  the 
preparations  for  Alexander's  oriental  campaigns  were 
commenced  in  earnest,  and  Aristotle  then  again  betook 
himself,  after  a  twelve  years'  absence,  to  Athens, 
whither  he  returned  with  all  the  prestige  which  could 
be  derived  from  the  most  marked  indications  of  the 
favor  of  Alexander,  who  ordered  a  statue  of  him  to 
be  set  up  at  Athens,  and  who  is  said  also  to  have  fur- 
nished him  with  ample  funds  for  the  prosecution  of 
physical  and  zoological  investigations.  Athenseus  com- 
putes the  total  sum  given  to  Aristotle  in  that  way 
at  800  talents  (nearly  £200,000);  and,  if  this  had 
been  the  actual  fact,  it  would  have  been,  perhaps, 
the  greatest  instance  on  record  of  the  "endowment 
of  research."    But  we  can  only  treat  the  statement  as 


*  Aristotle  at  this  time  obtained  the  permission  of  Philip  to 
rebuild  and  resettle  his  native  city,  Stageira,  which  had  been 
sacked  and  ruined  in  the  Olynthian  war  (349-347  b  c).  He  col- 
lected the  citizens,  who  had  been  scattered  abroad,  invited 
new  comers,  and  made  laws  for  the  community.  In  memory  of 
these  services  an  annual  festival  was  afterwards  held  in  his 
honor  at  Stageira. 


ARISTOTLE.  17 

at  best  mere  hearsay.  We  know  liov/  amounts  of  this 
kind  are  invariably  exaggerated;  and,  indeed,  the  whole 
story  may  have  arisen  from  the  imagination  of  later 
Greek  writers  dwelling  on  the  relationship  between  the 
philosopher  and  the  king.  The  same  may  be  said  of 
Pliny's  assertion,  that  "thousands  of  men"  in  Alexan- 
der's army  were  put  at  the  orders  of  Aristotle  for  the 
purposes  of  scientific  inquiry  and  collection.  Had  this 
been  true,  Aristotle,  though  far  from  being  able  to  make 
the  use  which  now  would  be  made  of  such  an  oppor- 
tunity, would  have  been  in  a  position  which  many  a 
biologist  of  the  present  day  might  envy.  Even  dis- 
counting all  such  statements  as  uncertain  and  question- 
able, we  must  still  admit  that  Aristotle,  in  his  fiftieth 
year,  was  enabled,  under  the  most  favorable  auspices, 
to  commence  building  up  the  great  fabric  of  philosophy 
and  science  for  which  he  had  been,  all  his  life  long, 
making  the  plans  and  gathering  the  materials. 

Aristotle,  on  his  return,  found  Speusippus  dead,  and 
Xenocrates  installed  as  leader  of  the  Platonic  school 
of  Philosophy,  which  was  held,  as  we  have  said,  in  the 
groves  of  Academe,  on  the  west  of  the  city  of  Athens. 
He  immediately  opened  a  rival  school  on  the  eastern 
side,  in  the  grounds  attached  to  the  Temple  of  the 
Lyceiau  Apollo.  From  his  using  the  covered  walks 
(peTipatoi)  in  these  grounds  for  lecturing  to,  and  inter- 
course with,  his  pupils,  the  name  of  "Peripatetics" 
came  to  be  given  to  his  scholars,  and  to  the  Aristotelian 
sect  in  general.  His  object  being  research,  and  the 
bringing  into  methodized  form  the  results  of  investiga- 
tions,— it  may  be  asked  why  he  should  have  opened  a 
school?  Partly,  this  was  necessitated  by  a  regard  for 
his  own  reputation  and  fame, — it  was  a  method  of 
publication  suitable  before  the  days  of  printing.    And 


18  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBBABY. 

also  in  many  ways  it  could  be  made  to  further  bis 
Views.  Teaching  a  philosophical  school  was  a  very 
different  tliiug  from  teaching  the  rudiments.  It  was 
more  like  tlie  work  of  a  German  professor,  who  often 
does  not  condescend  to  impart  anything  to  his  class 
except  his  own  latest  discoveries.  The  very  practice  of 
imparting  to  an  auditory  reasoned-out  conclusions  is  a 
stimulus  to  their  production,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
test  of  their  correctness.  Thus,  Aristotle,  in  his  writ- 
ings, frequently  uses  the  term  "teaching"  merely  to 
indicate  *'  demonstration;"  and  as  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  all  his  great  works  were  written  at  this 
time,  we  may  conceive,  with  great  likelihood,  that  all 
the  "demonstrations"  they  contain  had  at  one  time 
the  form  of  "teachings" — that  is  to  say,  that  they 
went  through  the  process  of  being  read  to  his  school. 
But  there  was  another  special  way  in  which  Aristotle 
was  able  not  only  to  benefit  his  scholars,  but  also  to 
make  use  of  them  as  subordinate  laborers  in  his  work. 
We  must  remember  what  he  was  aiming  at:  it  was  to 
produce  what  we  should  call  an  encyclopedia  of  all  the 
sciences.  Such  a  book,  nowadays,  is  done  by  many 
different  hands,  and  the  different  articles  in  it  do  not 
aim  at  being  original,  but  at  compiling  the  latest  re- 
sults of  the  best  authorities  in  each  department.  But 
Aristotle  sought  to  construct  an  encyclopedia  with  his 
own  hand,  in  which  each  science  should  appear  brand- 
new,  originally  created  or  quite  reconstructed  by  him- 
self. He  began  from  the  very  beginning,  and  framed 
his  own  philosophical  or  scientific  nomenclature;  he 
traced  out  the  laws  on  which  human  reasoning  pro- 
ceeds, and  was  the  first  to  reduce  these  to  science,  and 
to  produce  a  Logic.  He  wrote  anew  "Metaphysics," 
"Ethics,"  "Politics,"  "Rhetoric,"  and  "The  Art  of  Po- 


AniSTOTLE,  19 

etiy,'"  and  while  these  were  still  on  the  stocks,  he  was  en- 
gaged in  founding,  on  the  largest  scale,  the  physical  and 
natural  sciences,  especially  natural  philosophy,  physi- 
ology under  various  aspects  (such  as  histology  and 
anatomy,  embryology,  psychology,  the  philosophy  of 
the  senses,  etc.),  and,  above  all,  natural  history.  Much 
of  this  work,  especially  its  more  abstract  part,  was  tbe 
slowly-ripened  fruit  of  his  entire  previous  life.  But 
though  he  had  great  stores  ready  that  only  required  to 
be  arranged  and  put  forth,  he  never  ceased  pushing  out 
inquiries  in  all  directions,  and  collecting  fresh  materials. 
He  had  quite  tlie  Baconian  zeal  for  experientia  tabidata, 
for  lists  and  memoranda  of  all  kinds  of  facts,  historical, 
political,  psychological,  or  naturalistic.  He  loved  to 
note  problems  to  be  solved  and  difficulties  to  be  an- 
swered. Thus  a  boundless  field  of  subordinate  labor 
was  opened,  in  which  his  pupils  might  be  employed. 
The  absence  of  any  effort  after  artistic  beauty  in  his 
writings  made  it  easier  to  incorporate  here  and  there  the 
contributions  of  his  apprentices.  And  his  works,  as  we 
have  them,  exhibit  some  traces  of  co-operative  work. 
The  Peripatetic  school,  after  his  death,  followed  the 
direction  which  Aristotle  had  given  them,  and  were 
noted  for  their  monographs  on  small  particular  points. 
Aristotle  was  not  a  citizen  of  Athens,  but  onl}*-  a 
"  metic,"  or  foreign  resident,  so  he  took  no  part  in  pub- 
lic affairs.  His  whole  time  during  the  thirteen  years  of 
his  second  residence  in  the  city — a  period  coeval  with 
the  astonishing  career  of  Alexander  in  the  East — must 
have  been  devoted  to  labors  within  his  school,  especially 
in  connection  with  the  composition  of  his  works. 
From  the  enthusiastic  passages  in  which  he  speaks  of 
the  joys  of  the  philosopher,  we  may  conceive  how 
highly  the  privileges  of  this  period — so  calm  and  yet  so 


20  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

intensely  active — were  appreciated  by  him.  But  few 
traditions  bearing  upon  tills  part  of  his  life  have  been 
handed  down.  These  chiefly  point  to  his  relations 
with  Alexander,  with  whom,  as  well  as  with  Antipater, 
who  was  acting  as  viceroy  in  Macedonia,  he  is  repre- 
sented as  having  maintained  a  friendly  correspondence. 
Cassander,  the  son  of  Antipater,  appears  to  have  at- 
tended his  school.  As  time  went  on,  the  character  of 
Alexander  became  corrupted  *  by  unchecked  success, 
Asiatic  influences,  and  the  all  but  universal  servility 
which  he  encountered.  His  mind  became  alienated 
from  those  Greek  citizens  around  him  who  showed  any 
independence  of  spirit.  lie  quarreled  with  Antipater, 
who  Avas  faithfully  acting  for  him  at  home.  On  a 
frivolous  charge  he  cruelly  put  to  death  Callisthenes,  a 
young  orator  whom,  on  the  recommendation  of  Aristo- 
tle, he  had  taken  in  his  retinue.  On  this  and  other  oc- 
casions he  is  said  to  have  broken  out  into  bitter  expres- 
sions against  "the  sophistries"  of  Aristotle — that  is  to 
say,  his  free  and  reasonable  political  principles.  The 
East,  conquered  physically  by  Alexander,  had  con- 
quered and  changed  the  mind  of  its  conqueror.  And 
he  had  now  fallen  quite  out  of  sympathy  with  his 
ancient  preceptor  and  friend.  But  the  Athenians  seem 
to  have  been  unconscious  of  any  such  change,  Aristo- 
tle had  come  to  Athens  as  the  avowed  favorite  and  pro- 
tege of  Alexander,  and  that,  too,  at  a  moment  when 
Alexander  (335  B.C.),  by  sacking  the  city  of  Thebes,  and 
by  compelling  Athens  with  the  threat  of  a  similar  fate 
to  exile  some  of  her  anti-Macedonian  statesmen,  had 
made  himself  the  object  of  sullen  dread  and  covert  dis- 
like to  the  majority  of  .the  Athenian  citizens.     Some 

♦  See  Grote's  "  History  of  Greece,"  xii.  291,  301,  341. 


ARISTOTLE.  21 

portion  of  this  feeling  was  doubtless  reflected  upon 
Aristotle,  but  during  the  life  of  Alexander  any  mani- 
festation of  it  was  checked,  the  affairs  of  Athens  being 
administered  for  the  time  by  the  "Macedonian  "  party. 
Of  this  party  Aristotle  was  naturally  regarded  as  a 
pronounced  adherent,  and  he  came  even  to  be  identified 
with  those  arbitrary  and  tyrannical  acts  of  Alexander 
which  must  in  reality  have  been  most  repugnant  to  him. 
This  was  especially  the  case  in  324  B.C.,  when  Alexander 
thought  fit  to  insult  the  Hellenic  cities,  by  sending  a 
proclamation  to  be  read  by  a  herald  at  the  Olympic 
Games,  ordering  them  to  recall  all  citizens  who  were 
under  sentence  of  banishment,  and  threatening  with  in- 
stant invasion  any  city  which  should  hesitate  to  obey 
this  command.  The  officer  charged  with  bearing  this 
offensive  proclamation,  so  galling  to  the  self-respect  of 
the  Grecian  communities,  turned  out  to  be  none  other 
than  Nicanor  of  Stageira,  son  of  Proxenus  the  guardian 
of  Aristotle,  and  now  the  ward  and  destined]son-in-la\v 
of  Aristotle  himself.  This  unfortunate  circumstance 
could  not  fail  to  draw  upon  the  philosopher,  witliout 
any  fault  of  his  own,  the  animosity  of  the  Athenian 
people.  In  the  summer  of  the  next  year  (383  B.C.),  the 
eyes  of  all  Greece  were  still  anxiously  fixed  upon  the 
movements  of  Alexander,  when  of  a  sudden  the  start- 
ling news  thrilled  through  every  city  that  the  life  of  the 
great  conqueror  had  been  cut  short  by  a  violent  fever  at 
Bubjion.  The  new^s  caused  a  sensation  throughout  the 
states  of  Greece  analogous  to  what  would  have  been 
felt  throughout  Europe  had  Napoleon  been  suddenly 
cut  off,  say  in  the  year  1810. 

By  the  death  of  Alexander  the  position  of  Aristotle 
at  Athens  was  profoundly  affected.  The  anti-Mace- 
donian party  at  once,  for  the  moment,  regained  power; 


22  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRART. 

the  statesmen  who  had  hitherto  protected  him  were 
forced  to  fly  from  tlie  city,  and  tlie  spirit  of  reaction 
included  him  also  in  its  attacks.  It  now  became  clear 
that  Aristotle  had  a  host  of  enemies  in  Athens.  There 
were  three  classes  of  persons  from  whom  especially 
these  hostile  ranks  would  naturally  be  recruited:  1st, 
The  numerous  friends  of  the  orator  Isocrates,  with 
whom  Aristotle  in  earlier  life  had  put  himself  in  com- 
petition; 2d,  The  Platonists,  who  resented  Aristotle's 
divergence  from  their  master  and  his  polemic  against 
certain  points  of  the  Platonic  system;  8d,  The  anti- 
Macedonian  party,  who  indiscriminately  visited  on 
Aristotle  the  political  acts  of  Alexander.  FeeJings 
that  had  been  long  repressed  and  kept  concealed,  while 
Aristotle  was  strong  in  political  support,  were  now 
licensed  by  the  clianged  circumstances  to  come  forth 
into  act.  His  enemies  seized  on  the  moment  to  do 
him  a  mischief.  An  indictment,  charging  him  witli 
"impiety,"  was  drawn  up  by  Eurymedon,  the  chief 
priest  of  the  Eleusinian  Ceres,  aided  by  a  son  of 
Ephorus,  the  historian,  who  had  been  one  of  the  pupils 
of  Isocrates.  Matter  for  this  accusation  was  obtained 
partly  from  Aristotle's  poem  written  in  honor  of 
Hermeias,  and  which  equaled  him  to  the  demi-gods, 
partly  from  the  fact  that  Aristotle  had  placed  a  statue 
of  Hermeias  in  the  temple  at  Delphi,  partly  also  from 
some  passages  in  his  published  writings  which  were 
pointed  to  as  inconsistent  with  the  national  religion. 
A  philosopher's  view  must  necessarily  differ  from  the 
popular  view  of  the  topics  of  religion.  Yet  in  his  ex- 
tant works  Aristotle  is  always  tender  and  reverent  in 
dealing  with  popular  beliefs;  indeed,  in  modern  times, 
these  works  have  been  regarded  as  a  bulwark  of  ecclesi- 
astical feeling.     The  whole  charge,  if  taken  on  its  real 


ARISTOTLE.  23 

merits,  must  be  considered  utterly  frivolous;  yet  those 
who  would  have  to  try  the  case — a  large  jury  taken 
from  the  general  mass  of  the  citizens — could  not  be 
depended  on  for  discrimination  in  such  a  question. 
They  would  be  too  subject  to  the  currents  of  envy, 
political,  personal,  and  anti-philosophical,  setting  in 
from  various  quarters;  they  would  be  too  readily  im- 
bued with  the  odium  tJieologicum.  Nothing  but  a  very 
general  popularity  would  have  been  an  effectual  pro- 
tection at  such  a  moment,  and  this  it  is  not  likely  that 
Aristotle  ever  possessed  in  Athens.  While  capable  of 
devoted  and  generous  friendship,  he  may  easily  have 
been  cold  and  reserved  towards  general  society.  He 
was  absorbed  in  study,  and  probably  lived  confined 
within  the  narrow  scientific  circle  of  his  own  school. 
He  may  even  have  exhibited  some  of  those  proud  char- 
acteristics which  he  attributes  in  his  "  Ethics"  to  the 
"  great-souled''  man,  "  who  claims  great  things  for  him- 
self because  he  is  worthy  of  them,"  and  "who  cannot 
bear.to  associate  with  any  one  except  a  friend."  How- 
ever this  may  have  been,  he  was  probably  right  on  the 
present  occasion  to  decline  submitting  his  life  and  opin. 
ions  to  the  judgment  of  the  populace  of  Athens.  He 
avniled  himself  of  the  law  which  gave  to  any  accused 
person  the  option  of  quitting  the  city  before  the  day  of 
trial,  and  he  retired  to  Chalcis  in  Euboea,  "in  order," 
as  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  "that  the  Athenians 
might  not  have  another  opportunity  of  sinning  against 
philosophy,  as  they  had  already  done  once  in  the  per- 
son of  Socrates." 

Chalcis  was  the  original  home  of  the  ancestry  of 
Aristotle,  and  he  appears  to  have  had  some  property 
there ;  but  it  was  especially  a  safe  place  of  refuge  for 
him,  as  being  occupied  at  this  time  by  a  Macedonian 


24  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

garrison.  He  probably  intended  only  to  make  a  short 
sojourn  there,  till  circumstances  should  be  changed. 
He  must  have  fully  foreseen  that  in  a  short  space  of 
time  the  Macedonian  arms  would  prevail,  and  restore 
at  Athens  the  government  which  had  hitherto  protected 
him.  He  left  his  school  and  library  in  charge  of  Theo- 
phrastus,  doubtless  looking  forward  to  a  speedy  return 
to  them  and  to  the  resumption  of  those  labors  which 
had  already  consummated  so  much.  And  all  this 
would  have.happened  but  that,  within  a  year's  time,  in 
322  B.C.,  he  was  seized  with  illness,,  and  died  somewhat 
suddenly  at  Chalcis,  in  the  sixty-third  year  of  his  age. 
The  story  that  he  had  taken  poison  may  be  dismissed  as 
fabulous.  A  more  trustworthy  account  speaks  of*  his 
having  suffered  from  impaired  digestion,  the  natural 
result  of  his  habits  of  application,  and  this  may  very 
likely  have  been  the  cause  of  his  death. 

The  will  of  Aristotle,  or  what  professes  to  be  such, 
has  been  preserved  amongst  a  heap  of  very  questionable 
traditions,  by  Diogenes  Laertius.  If  not  genuine  it  is 
cleverly  invented,  and  is  the  work  of  a  romancer  who 
wished  to  credit  the  Stagirite  with  evidences  of  a  gen- 
erous and  just  disposition.  The  property  to  be  disposed 
of  seems  considerable,  analogous  perhaps  to  an  estate 
of  £50,000  in  the  present  day.  The  chief  beneficiary 
under  the  will  is  Nicanor  (before  mentioned),  whom 
Aristotle  appoints  to  marry  Pythias — his  daughter  by 
the  niece  of  Hermeias — so  soon  as  she  shall  be  of  mar- 
riageable age.  Aristotle's  first  wife  had  died,  and  he 
had  subsequently  married  Herpyllis  of  Stageira,  wiio 
became  the  mother  of  his  son  Nicomachus.  The  will 
places  Nicomachus  under  the  care  of  Nicanor,  and 
makes  liberal  provision  for  Herpyllis,  who  is  mentioned 
in  terms  of  affection  and  gratitude.     Several  of  the 


ARISTOTLE.  25 

Niaves  are  thought  of,  and  are  to  be  presented  with 
money  and  set  at  liberty;  all  the  young  slaves  are  to  be 
freed,  "if  they  deserve  it,"  as  soon  as  they  are  grown 
up.  Nicanor  is  charged  to  transfer  the  bones  of  Aris- 
totle's first  wife  Pythias  to  his  own  place  of  interment, 
to  provide  and  dedicate  suitable  busts  of  various  mem- 
bers of  Aristotle's  family,  and  to  fulfill  a  vow  formerly 
made  by  himself  of  four  marble  figures  of  animals  to 
Zeus  the  Preserver  and  Athene  the  Preserver.  This 
last  clause  throws  suspicion  on  the  genuineness  of  the 
document,  for  it  looks  like  a  mere  imitation  of  the 
dying  injunction  of  Socrates;  "We  owe  a  cock  to 
^sculapius;  pay  the  debt  and  do  not  fail."  Other 
points  also  suggest  doubt:  for  instance,  Antipater  is 
named  as  chief  executor,  and  this  detail  has  the  appear- 
ance of  being  the  work  of  a  forger  availing  himself  of 
a  well-known  name;  again,  there  is  a  difticulty  about 
Pythias  the  daughter  of  Aristotle  being  too  young  for 
marriage  at  the  time  of  her  father's  death — he  had 
married  her  mother  some  twent3'--three  years  previously, 
and  had  been  subsequently  mamed.  .The  terms  of  the 
will  would  imply  that  Nicomachus  was  a  mere  child 
when  his  father  died,  which  is  inconsistent  with  other 
considerations.  These  and  other  points  of  criticism 
which  might  be  urged  do  not  absolutely  prove  the  will 
te  have  been  a  forgery;  they  only  leave  us  in  doubt 
about  it.  And,  as  has  been  said,  even  if  regarded  as  a 
mere  fabrication,  it  is  still  a  tribute  of  antiquity  to  the 
virtue  of  Aristotle. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  great  name  did  not  escape 
without  incurring  its  full  share  of  carping  and  detrac- 
tation.  And  the^gossip- mongers  of  the  later  Roman  em- 
pire, including  Fathers  of  the  Church,  have  handed  on 
some  of  the  hearsay  reports,  smart  sayings  of  epigram- 


26  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

matists,  and  attacks  of  hostile  schools  of  philosophy, 
which  had  beeu  leveled  against  Aristotle.  After  all 
they  come  to  very  little: — that  he  had  small  eyes,  and 
thin  legs,  and  a  lisping  utterance;  that  he  passed  a 
wild  and  spendthrift  youth;  that  he  was  showy  and 
affected  in  his  attire,  and  habitually  luxurious  in  his 
table;  that  he  chose  to  live  at  the  Macedonian  court 
for  the  sake  of  the  flesh-pots  to  be  obtained  by  so  do- 
ing; and  that  he  was  ungrateful  to  Plato,— these  make 
up  the  sum  of  the  charges  against  him.  Perhaps  if  we 
knew  all  the  facts,  w^e  might  find  that  a  contradictory, 
or  at  all  events  a  different,  statement  would  be  more 
correct  under  each  of  the  several  heads.  As  it  is,  we 
may  fairly  deal  with  these  imputations  as  we  should 
with  similar  aspersions  on  the  personal  history  of  any 
great  man,  if  they  could  neither  be  proved  nor  dis- 
proved, and  set  them  aside  aa  beneath  consideration. 
We  cannot  expect  to  know  more  than  the  outline  of 
Aristotle's  life,  but  all  we  know  gives  us  the  impression 
of  a  life  that,  morally  speaking,  was  singularly  honor- 
able and  blameless.  And  it  was  the  life  of  one  who 
by  his  intellectual  achievements  placed  himself  at  the 
very  head  of  ancient  thought,  and  won  the  admiration 
and  allegiance  of  many  centuries.  What  those  intel- 
lectual achievements  were  we  have  now  to  endeavor 
to  set  forth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  WORKS  OF  ARISTOTLE. 

A  CATALOGUE  of  the  works  of  Aristotle  has  been 
handed  down  to  us,  which  was  made  by  the  librarian 
of  the  great  Library  at  Alexandria  about  the  year  220 


AltltiTOTLhJ  27 

B.C. — that  is  to  say,  a  century  afler  the  death  of  the 
philosopher — and  which  gives  the  titles  of  all  the  books, 
contained  in  the  Library,  which  were  attributed  to  the 
authorship  of  Aristotle.  These  titles  amount  to  140 
in  number,  but  it  is  at  first  sight  a  most  astonishing 
circumstance  that  they  do  not  in  the  least  answer  to 
the  writings  which  we  now  possess  under  the  name  of 
the  "works  of  Aristotle."  All  the  books  mentioned  in 
the  Alexandrian  catalogue  are  now  lost;  only  a  few  frag- 
ments of  them  have  been  preserved  in  the  shape  of  ex- 
tracts and  quotations  from  ihem  made  by  other  writers; 
but  everything  tends  to  show  that  they  were  quite  a 
diilerent  set,  and  different  altogether  in  character,  from 
the  forty  treatises  which  stand  collectively  on  our  book- 
shelves labeled  "  Aristotelis  Opera."  Under  the  circum- 
stances it  would  be  natural  to  conjecture  that  so  (com- 
paratively speaking)  short  a  time  after  the  death  of 
Aristotle,  the  learned  keepers  of  the  Alexandrian  Library 
must  have  known  what  he  really  wrote,  and  therefore 
that  in  losing  the  books  mentioned  in  the  Alexandrian 
catalogue  we  have  lost  the  true  works  of  Aiistotle,  as 
uey  existed  100  years  after  his  death,  and  that  what 
as  come  down  to  us  under  his  name,  be  it  whut  it 
nay,  cannot  be  the  genuine  article.  Other  facts,  liow- 
;ver,  and  criticism  of  the  whole  question,  show  that 
this  natural  supposition  is  incorrect,  and  that  some- 
thing like  the  contradictory  of  it  is  true.  It  is  a  curi- 
ous story,  and  needs  some  little  explanation. 

The  life  of  Aristotle  after  his  boyhood  fell,  as  we 
have  seen,  into  three  broad  divisions  —  namely,  his 
first  residence  at  Athens,  from  his  eighteenth  to  his 
thirty-eighth  year;  his  residence  away  from  Athens, 
at  Atarneus,  Mitylene,  Pellu.  and  Stageira,  from  his 
thirty-eighth  to   his  fiftictlj  yenr;  and  his  second  resi 


28  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

deuce  at  Athens,  from  his  fiftieth  to  his  sixty  third 
year.  During  the  first  period,  after  studying  under 
Plato,  he  commenced  authorship  by  writing  dialogues, 
which  appear  to  have  been  published  at  the  lime. 
They  differed  from  the  Platonic  dialogues  in  not  being 
dramatic,  but  merely  expository,  like  the  dialogues 
of  Bishop  Berkeley,  the  principal  i^ole  in  each  being 
assigned  to  Aristotle  himself.  They  were  somewhat 
rhetorical  in  style,  and  quite  adapted  for  popular  read 
ing.  In  ihem  Aristotle  attacked  Plato's  doctrine  ot 
Ideas,  and  set  forth  views  on  philosophy,  the  chief 
good,  the  arts  of  government,  moral  virtue,  and  othei 
topics.  Tiien  came  the  second  period  of  his  life,  when 
he  had  definitely  broken  with  the  school  of  Plato,  and 
was  away  f-rom  all  the  schools  of  xlthens,  enjoying  much 
leisiH-e  and  positions  of  dignity.  In  this  period  it  ii 
probable  that  he  not  only  prosecuted  his  researches  and 
independent  speculations  in  many  branches  of  thought 
and  science,  but  that  he  learned  to  know  his  own 
mission  in  the  world,  which  was  to  stick  to  the  matter 
of  knowledge,  abandoning  all  regard  for  the  artistic 
ailornment  of  truth.  During  this  period  we  may 
believe  that  he  thoroughly  doveloped  the  individual 
character  of  his  own  mind  in  relation  to  philosophy 
so  that  when  he  came  back  to  Atliens  he  had  quite 
established  his  own  peculiar  style  of  writing,  crabbed 
indeed  and  inelegant,  but  full  of  an  exact  phraseology 
which  he  had  himself  constructed,  and  on  the  whole 
not  unsuited  as  a  vehicle  for  the  exposition  of  science 
We  are  not  able,  however,  to  say  for  certain  whethci 
in  his  second  period  he  actually  composed  any  works, 
though  he  must  constantly  have  been  compiling  notes 
and  memoranda,  to  serve  either  as  the  materials  or  the 
ground-plans  for  future  treatises.     The  third  period  of 


AlilSTOTLlC.  29 

Aristotle's  life  was  the  rich  fruil-time  of  his  genius. 
AVe  have  already  mentioned  how  he  set  himself  to  the 
construction  of  an  entire  encyclopedia  of  science  and 
philosophy.  What  we  possess  as  his  works  contain 
the  unfinished,  but  much  advanced,  working  out  of 
that  project.  There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  tlie 
great  bulk  of  this  series  of  writings  was  composed  by 
Aristotle  during  the  last  thirteen  years  of  his  life.  He 
was  doubtless  assisted  by  his  school,  and  he  must  have 
had  many  treatises  on  hand  at  one  time,  or  rather  he 
had  them  all  in  his  head,  and  when  anything  caused 
him  to  drop  one  for  a  time  he  could  go  on  with  an- 
other. Hardly  any  of  the  treatises  are  finished,  still 
less  is  there  any  trace  of  careful  revision  and  "  the  last 
hand,"  It  is  certain  that  many  of  these  works  were 
never  published  during  Aristotle's  lifetime,  and  it 
is  even  a  question  whether  any  of  them  were  so  pub- 
lished. 

AVhen  Aristotle  died,  all  the  MSS.  of  his  later  compo- 
sitions, together  with  the  considerable  libmry  of  other 
men's  writings  which  he  had  got  together,  were  under 
charge  of  his  chief  disciple  Theophrastns  at  the  school 
in  the  Lyceum.  After  his  decease,  the  Peripatetics  ap- 
pear to  have  worked  to  some  extent  at  editing  the  un- 
completed treatises,  and  at  patching  together  those 
which  existed  as  yet  only  in  disjointed  fragments. 
But  there  does  not  seem  to  have  been  any  multiplica- 
tion of  copies,  or  what  we  should  call  "  publication." 
On  the  death  of  Theophrastus  (which  took  place  thirty- 
five  years  later  than  that  of  Aristotle),  the  whole  Peri- 
patetic school  library  went  by  his  bequest  to  a  favorite 
pupil  named  Neleus,  who  took  all  the  rolls  away  with 
him  to  his  home  at  a  place  called  Scepsis,  in  the  Troad. 
Included  among  them  were  the  i\ISS.,  many  of  them 


80  THE  ELZfiVUt  LIBHARY. 

unique,  of  Aristotle's  most  important  works,  wliich 
were  thus  removeil  from  Europe.  Not  only  was  this 
the  case,  but  a  few  years  later  the  kings  of  Pcrgamus 
>)egan  seizing  the  books  of  private  individuals  in  order 
to  fill  their  ovvd  royal  library,  and  the  family  of  Ne- 
leus,  afraid  of  losing  the  treasures  tliey  possessed — 
which,  however,  they  could  little  appreciate — hid  away 
Mie  Peripatetic  rolls  Jind  the  precious  MSS.  of  Aristotle 
in  a  subterranean  vault,  where  they  remained  for  150 
years  forgotten  by  the  world.  At  the  end  of  that  inter- 
val, the  dynasty  of  the  kings  of  Pergamus  having  passed 
away,  the  books  were  brought  out  of  their  hiding-place 
and  sold  to  one  Apellicou,  a  wealthy  Peripatetic  and 
book-collector,  who  resided  at  Athens.  They  were  said 
to  have  been  by  this  time  a  good  deal  damaged  by 
worms  and  damp;  yet  still  it  was  a  great  thing  that, 
after  187  years*  absence,  the  best  productions  of  Aristotle 
should  })e  restored,  about  100  B.C.,  to  the  West. 

The  termination  of  this  "  strange  eventful  history" 
was  that  in  86  B.C.  Athens  was  taken  by  Syila,  and  the 
library  of  Apellicon  was  seized  and  brought  to  Rome, 
where  it  was  placed  under  the  custody  of  a  librarian, 
and  several  literary  Greeks,  resident  in  Rome,  had  ae 
cess  to  it.  Tyrannion,  the  learned  friend  of  Cicero,  got 
pernussion  to  arrange  the  MSS.,  and  Andronicus  of 
Rhodes,  applying  himself  with  earnestness  to  the  task 
of  obtaining  a  correct  text  and  furnishing  a  complete 
edition  of  the  philosophical  works  of  Aristotle,  ar- 
ranged the  different  treatises  and  scattered  fragments 
under  their  proper  heads,  and  getting  numerous  tran- 
scripts made,  gave  publicity  to  ageneral-ly  received  text 
of  Aristotle.  There  seems  to  be  good  reason  for  believ- 
ing that  ''  0«?*  Aristotle,'"'  as  Grote  calls  it,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  Aristotle  of  the  Alexandrian  Library,  is 


ARISTOTLE.  81 

none  other  than  this  recension  of  Andronicus.  And 
this  being  the  case,  we  may  well  reflect  how  great  was 
the  risk  which  these  works  incurred  of  being  consigned 
to  perpetiud  oblivion.  A  few  more  years  in  the  cellar 
at  Scepsis,  or  any  one  of  a  hundred  other  accidents  which 
might  have  prevented  these  writings  fiom  getting  into 
the  appreciative  and  competent  liands  of  Tyrannion  and 
Andronicus,  would  in  all  probabilily  have  made  them  as 
if  they  had  never  been.  And  thus  that  which  was  actual 
ly  the  chief  intellectual  food  of  men  in  the  middle  ages 
would  have  been  withheld.  Whether  for  better  or 
worse,  men's  thoughts  would  have  had  a  different  exer- 
cise and  taken  a  different  direction.  Much  of  ecclesias- 
tical history  would  have  been  changed.  And  many  of 
the  modes  in  which  we  habitually  think  and  speak  at 
the  present  day  would  have  been  different  from  what 
they  are. 

But  we  must  return  to  the  Alexandrian  catalogue.  If 
the  MSS.  of  all  Aristotle's  most  important  works  were 
carried  off  in  the  year  287  B.C.,  to  be  buried  in  AsiajVIinor 
for  a  century  and  a  half,  what  means  this  list  of  146 
books  bearing  the  name  of  Aristotle,  which  in  220  B.C. 
were  stored  up  in  the  Alexandrian  Library?  Were 
these  also  all  really  written  by  Aristotle?  Was  he  so 
voluminous  a  composer  as  this  would  imply,  as  well 
as  a  profound  thinker  and  an  original  explorer  of 
nature  in  many  departments?  Or  were  the  books  sup- 
plied to  the  Alexandrian  collection,  as  the  works  of  Ar- 
istotle, mere  forgeries,  got  up  for  the  market,  to  supply 
"the  place  of  the  genuine  writings,  which  for  the  time 
had  been  lost  to  the  world?  The  only  answer  that  can 
be  given  to  tliese  questions  must  be  a  conjectural  one,  and 
probability  seems  to  dictate  an  answer  lying  between 
the  two  extreme  hypotheses.     Several  of  the  names  ap- 


32  TIIH  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY, 

pearing  in  tlie  catalogue  remind  us  of  the  titles  of  Plato's 
dialogues, — for  iustance  "Nerinthus,"  "Gryllus;  or, 
On  Rhetoric,"  "Sophist,"  "Meuexenus,"  "Sympo- 
sium," "  The  Lover,"  "Alexander;  or,  On  Colonies," 
etc.  And  the  natural  supposition  is  that  these  books, 
or  some  of  them,  were  none  other  than  these  early  dia- 
logues which  Aristotle  composed  during  his  first  resi- 
dence in  Athens,  Strabo  says  distinctly  that  when,  by 
the  bequest  of  Theophrastus,  the  Aristotelian  MSS.  were 
taken  away,  the  Peripatetic  school  had  none  of  his 
works  left  except  a  few  of  the  more  popular  ones.  His 
dialogues  had  been  published,  and  ^Yere  available,  and 
no  doubt  copies  of  them  formed  the  nucleus  of  the 
books  professing  to  be  his  in  the  Alexandrian  Library. 
Others  of  the  collection  may  have  been  excerpts  from 
his  greater  works  which  had  beeu  made  by  his  scholars, 
and  were  so  kept  before  the  woild  when  the  entire 
works  themselves  were  hidden  in  Asia  Minor.  Many 
others  were  probably  monographs  and  papers  by  mem- 
bers of  the  Peripatetic  school,  drawn  up  in  Aristotle's 
manner,  perhaps  containing  his  ideas,  and  from  a  sort 
of  reverential  feeling  attributed  to  him  and  inscribed 
with  his  name.  The  residue  must  have  been  forgeries 
pure  and  simple:  imitations  of  his  dialogues,  and  of 
such  parts  of  his  treatises  as  were  known,  All  the 
books  in  the  Alexandrian  list,  though  thoy  were  numer- 
ous, appear  to  have  been  short,  treating  generally  of 
isolated  questions,  and  quite  unlike  the  long  methodical 
setting  forth  of  entire  sciences,  such  as  we  find  in  tlie 
writings  of  Aristotle  that  have  come  down  to  us. 

The  "  late  of  Aristotle's  works"  is  a  romantic  episode 
in  the  history  of  literature.  But  we  must  observe  that 
what  in  the  first  place  rendered  this  train  of  circum- 
stances possible  was  the  rapid  decay  of  genius  in  Greece. 


ARISTOTLE.  33 

When  Aristotle  died,  uone  of  his  scholsus  was  worthy 
to  succeed  him  aud  carry  ou  his  work.  His  school  do 
not  seem  to  have  appreciated  what  was  great  aud  valu- 
able in  his  philosophy.  They  went  off  either  into  rhe- 
torical sermonizing  ou  moral  questions,  or  else  into 
isolated  inquiries,  the  solution  of  problems,  or  the  draw- 
ing up  of  "papers"  like  those  read  before  the  Royal 
Society.  It  was  perhaps  a  feeling  of  contempt  for  the 
Peripatetic  school  which  induced  Theophrastus,  a  gen- 
eration after  the  death  of  Aristotle,  to  give  away  their 
whole  library,  iucluding  the  great  works  of  their  mas- 
ter, to  a  foreign  student.  But  for  their  apathy  those 
great  works  would  never  have  been  left  in  unique  cop. 
ies,  and  ultimately  exposed  to  such  extreme  peril. 
There  must,  however,  have  been  a  corresponding 
apathy  in  the  external  public,  else  curiosity  would  have 
demanded,  and  the  love  of  science  would  have  pie- 
eerved,  the  results  of  Aristotle's  later  years.  But  the 
reading  world  of  the  third  century  b.c,  seems  to  have 
been  quite  content  to  be  put  off  with  that  which  was 
really  un-Aristotelian,  though  it  bore  the  name  of  Aris- 
totle— with  immature,  rhetorical  dialogues,  the  work  of 
his  youth,  or  spurious  imitations  of  that  work,  with  ex- 
cerpts, epitomes,  "papers,"  aud  the  sweepings  of  the 
Peripatetic  school. 

We  may  take  Cicero,  though  living  two  centuries 
later,  as  a  good  specimen  of  the  attitude  towards  Aris- 
totle of  a  cultivated  man  of  literature,  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  taste  for  philosophy,  of  those  times.  Cicero 
often  mentions,  praises,  and  quotes  Aristotle,  but  it  is 
not,  ''our  Aristotle,"  but  the  Aristotle  of  Alexandria, 
the  writer  of  dialogues.  Several  passages  of  these  dia- 
logues have  been  translated  and  preserved  by  Cic(  ro, 
who  extols  the  "golden  flow  of  their  language,"  ut-iiig 


a4  THE  ELZEVIR   LlBilARY 

terms  which  are  as  far  as  possible  from  being  applicable 
to  the  harsh,  compressed,  and  difficult  style  of  Aris- 
totle's scientific  treatises.  The  latter  were,  indeed,  too 
difficult  and  too  repulsive  for  Cicero,  as  is  plain  from 
the  story  which  he  himself  relates:  Cicero  had  in  his 
Tusculau  villa  some  of  the  works  of  Aristotle,  as  we  at 
present  possess  them,  probably  copies  of  the  recension 
of  Audrouicus;  when  asked  by  his  friend  Trebatius 
wiiat  the  "  Topics"  of  Aristotle  were  about,  he  advised 
hitn  "for  Ids  own  interest"  to  study  the  book  for  him- 
self, or  else  to  consult  a  certain  learned  rhetorician. 
Trebatius,  however,  was  repelled  by  the  obscurity  of 
the  writing,  and  the  rhetorician,  when  consulted,  con- 
fessed his  total  ignorance  of  Aristotle.  Cicero  thinks 
this  no  wonder,  since  even  the  philosophers  know 
hardly  anything  about  him,  though  they  "ought  to 
have  been  attracted  by  the  incredible  flow  and  sweet- 
ness of  the  diction."  He  then  proceeds  to  give  Treba- 
tius a  summary  of  the  first  few  pages  of  the  "  Topics" 
of  Aristotle,  whicli  he  had  apparently  read  up  for  the  oc- 
casion. From  facts  like  this,  it  may  be  concluded  that 
in  the  two  last  centuries  before  the  Christian  era,  it  was 
only  the  lighter  and  less  valuable  compositions  of  Aris- 
totle that  were  generally  known  and  admired.  His 
more  serious  and  really  valuable  contributions  to 
thought  and  knowledge  were  left  out  of  sight,  ignored, 
and  forgotten.  For  the  moment  it  seemed  as  if  the 
favorite  dictum  of  Lord  Bacon  had  come  to  pass — that 
"Time,  like  a  river,  bringing  down  to  us  things  which 
are  lighter  and  more  inflated,  lets  what  is  more  weighty 
and  solid  sink."  But  the  result  of  that  concatenation 
of  accidents  which  we  have  narrated,  was  completely 
to  reverse  this  sentence;  so  that  now  it  may  be  said  that 
all  the  lighter  part  of  Aristotle's  work  has  been  swept 


ARISTOTLE.  35 

away  by  the  stream  of  Time,  while  only  that  which  was 
weighty  and  solid  has  been  suffered  to  remain  in  exist- 
ence. Owing  to  the  wealth  of  the  Roman  empire,  it 
is  likely  that  numerous  copies  were  made  of  the  entire 
works  of  Aristotle,  as  edited  by  Androuicus — both  for 
public  libraries  and^for  individuals.  This  gave  him  a 
better  chance  of  survival  in  a  collective  form  during 
the  wreck  and  destruction  of  the  barbarian  invasions; 
and  afterwards  he  was  early  taken  into  the  protection 
of  the  Church.  The  dialogues,  in  the  meantime,  and 
other  shorter  productions,  which  had  figured  in  the 
Alexandrian  catalogue,  had  no  coherence  with  each 
other,  and  thus  were  not  reproduced  by  the  copyists 
and  Hbrarians,  as  a  whole.  Again,  they  did  not  attract, 
jis  the  greater  works  of  Aristotle  did,  the  attention  of 
successive  scholiasts  and  commentators.  In  short,  they 
fell  into  the  neglect  which,  comparatively  speaking, 
they  deserved,  and  disappeared,  all  but  a  few  scattered 
quotations.  But  now  we  can  thank  the  Providence  of 
history  that  we  possess  a  large  portion  of  the  best  of 
all  that  Aristotle  thought  and  wrote.  We  possess  it, 
indeed,  incomplete  as  he  left  it,  and  not  only  so,  but 
also  edited  and  re-edited,  transposed  occasionally,  inter- 
polated, and  eked  out,  by  the  earlier  Peripatetics,  by 
Andronicus,  and  perhaps  by  subsequent  hands.  Yet 
still  the  individuality  of  the  Stagirite  shines  out 
through  the  greater  part  of  these  remains,  and  in  study- 
ing them  we  feel  that  we  are  brought  into  contact  with 
his  mind. 

If  the  supposition  be  correct  that  what  we  now  pos- 
sess is  substantially  the  edition  of  Andronicus,  it  is 
clear  in  the  first  place  that  he  did  not  mean  this  to  be 
what  we  should  call  a  "complete  edition  of  the  collect- 
ive works   of  Aristotle,"  el-e  he  would  have  included 


36  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

in  it  the  dialogues  that  Cicero  quotes,  the  hymn  in 
honor  of  Hermeias,  aud  we  linow  not  what  beside. 
His  object  appears  to  have  been  to  give  to  the  world 
the  pliilosophy  of  Aristotle,  hitherto  virtually  imlinoAvn, 
as  he  found  it  in  the  documents  contained  in  tlie 
library  of  Apellicon.  He  dealt,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, not  only  with  that  collection  of  rolls  which  had 
been  buried  in  the  Troad,  but  also  with  all  the  books 
which  had  been  got  together  by  a  wealthy  bibliophilist. 
The  edition  of  Andronicus,  if  it  corresponds  with  ours, 
contained  a  body  of  Aristotelian  science  and  all  Aris- 
totle's greatest  works ;  but  on  the  one  hand  it  excluded 
his  less  important  writings,  and  on  the  other  hand  it 
admitted  works  which  Aristotle  certainly  never  wrote, 
though  they  are  full  of  his  ideas.  Andronicus  may 
have  doubted  as  to  the  authorship  of  these  treatises, 
which  modern  criticism  pronounces  to  be  by  later  Peri- 
patetic hands;*  or  he  may  have  thought  that  they 
represented  or  explained  Aristotle,  and  might  advan- 
tageously be  preseved  as  part  of  his  system.  However 
it  came  about,  we  find  included  within  the  Aristotelian 
canon  a  treatise"  On  the  Universe,"  neatly  epitomizing 
liis  views,  but  quite  later  than  his  time;  one  "On  the 
Motion  of  Animals"  of  which  the  same  may  be  said; 
two  treatises  on  morals,  the  "Eudemian  Ethics"  and  the 
"Great  Ethics,"  which  are  mere  paraphrases  of  the 
"Ethics"  of  Aristotle;  a  large  book  of  "Problems," 
with  their  solutions,  evidently  of  mixed  authorship;  a 
set  of  "  Opuscula,"  or  minor  works,  which  belong  to  the 
class    of  Peripatetic  monographs — e.g.    "On  Colors," 


*One  of  the  doubtful  treatises— the  "  Rhetoric  dedicated  to 
Alexander"— is  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  Anaximenes,  a  wri- 
ter contemporary  with  Aristotle. 


ARISTOTLE,  37 

"Oil  Invisible  Lines,"  "  Strange  Stories,"  "Physiogno- 
mies," etc, ;  a  treatise  on  '*  Rhetoric,"  quite  different  in 
lirinciple,  from  that  of  Aristotle's,  and  only  suggested 
to  bj  his  by  a  fictitious  dedication  to  Alexander,  which 
has  been  stuck  on  to  it.  One  or  two  other  suspicious 
books  might  be  mentioned,  but  even  if  everything  were 
deducted  against  which  the  most  skeptical  criticism  can 
make  objection,  less  than  one-fourth  would  be  taken  away 
from  the  entire  mass  which  is  in  use  to  he  labeled  "  Ar- 
istotle." The  whole  works  in  Bekker's  octavo  edition 
fill  3786  pages,  and  out  of  these  the  books,  about  whose 
genuineness  any  question  has  been  raised,  occupy  only 
925  pages.  A  solid  residue  remains,  which  may  now  be 
briefly  characterized,  merely  in  regard  to  its  external 
form,  a  few  remarks  being  added  as  to  the  chronological 
order  in  which  it  seems  probable  that  Aristotle  com- 
posed the  various  parts. 

The  remains  of  Aristotle  come  before  us  as  a  torso 
— an  incomplete  and  somewhat  mutilated  group  from 
antiquity.  Yet  they  constitute  a  whole,  and  the  differ- 
ent treatises  have  an  organic  connection  with  each  other. 
On  the  one  hand,  these  works  constitute  an  encyclopae- 
dia, for  they  contain  a  resume  and  reconstruction  of  the 
sciences  so  far  as  was  possible  in  the  fourth  century  B.C. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  they  are  more  than  an  encyclo- 
psedia,  because  they  are  a  philosophy,  in  which  the 
universe  is  explained  from  the  point  of  view  and 
according  to  the  system  of  one  individual  thinker.  In 
them  thought  and  knowledge  are  mapped  out  in  broad 
and  lucid  outlines,  with  the  details  sometimes  very 
fully  worked  in,  sometimes  barely  indicated  and  left  to 
be  supplied  by  subsequent  workers.  The  key  to  their 
arrangement  is  to  be  sought  from  Aristotle  himself. 
From  him  we  learu  that  science  is  divided  into  Practi- 


38  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

cal,  Constructive,  and  Theoretical.  Practical  science 
deals  with  man  and  human  action,  and  this  branch  is 
copiously  developed  by  Aristotle  in  his  "Ethics"  and 
"Politics."  Constructive  science  treats  of  art  and  the 
laws  by  which  it  is  to  be  governed.  Towards  this 
branch  Aristotle  has  made  but  a  brief,  though  valuable, 
contribution,  in  his  unfinished  or  mutilated  treatise 
"  On  Poetry."  Theoretical  science  has  three  great  sub- 
divisions. Physics,  Mathematics,  and  Theology,  other- 
wise called  First  Philosophy  or  Metaphysics.  For  the 
section  of  Mathematics  nothing  appears  done  in  these 
remains.  Aristotle  speaks  often  of  Mathematics  as  a 
great  and  interesting  science,  capable  of  affording  high 
mental  delight;  but  he  seems  to  have  regarded  it  as 
something  tolerably  finished  and  settled  in  his  own 
time,  and  therefore  less  requiring  his  attention  than 
other  departments.  Had  his  life  been  prolonged  to 
the  age  attained  by  Plato  or  Alexander  von  Humboldt, 
he  might  possibly  have  undertaken  the  setting  forth  of 
the  philosophy  of  Mathematics.  Physics,  on  the  other 
hand — that  is  to  say,  the  Physical  and  Natural  Sciences 
— occupy  1447  pages,  or  fully  one  half,  of  the  writings 
which  are  undoubtedly  Aristotle's.  In  his  physical 
treatises  one  mind  may  be  seen  grappling,  at  first  hand, 
with  the  provinces  of  almost  all  the  different  "  Sec- 
lions  "  of  the  British  Association.  Natural  Philosophy, 
Astronomy,  Physiology,  and  Natural  History  are  all 
marvelously  founded  in  these  treatises,  by  masterly 
analysis  and  classification  of  existing  knowledge  on  the 
different  subjects,  and  by  the  arrangement  of  facts,  or 
supposed  facts,  under  leading  scientific  ideas.  Twelve 
books  on  Metaphysics  occupy  about  one  tenth  of  the 
genuine  remains  of  Aristotle.  These  books  are  obvi- 
ously patched  together  out  of  the  fragments  of  two  or 


ARISTOTLE,  89 

three  unfinished  treatises.  How  far  this  was  done  by 
I  he  earlier  Peripatetics,  and  how  far  by  Andronicus, 
we  cauoot  tell.  But  we  here  possess  probably  some  of 
Aristotle's  latest  thoughts.  And  the  name  "Meta- 
physics," or  "  the  things  which  follow  after  "  Physics," 
was  given  to  these  books  when  they  were  put  together, 
after  Aristotle's  death,  to  indicate  both  chronological  se- 
quence in  the  oi-der  of  composition,  and  also  that  the  sub- 
ject treated  of  lay  beyond  and  above  all  physical  inquiry. 

In  briefly  grouping  out  the  works  of  Aristotle,  we 
have  hitherto  omitted  to  mention  a  class  of  writings, 
very  important,  and  amounting  to  one  seventh  of  the 
whole  mass,  and  yet  which  do  not  belong  to  either 
Practical,  Constructive,  or  Theoretic  science, — which 
are  not  part  of  Philosophy,  but  treat  of  the  method  of 
thought  and  the  laws  of  reasoning,  and  which  thus 
constitute  the  instrument  or  "organ"  of  Philosophy — 
that  is  to  say,  the  logical  writings,  which  were  collect- 
ively named  by  the  Peripatetic  school  "the  Organon" 
or  instrument.  These  books  stand  fii*st  in  modern 
editions  of  Aristotle,  and,  speaking  generally,  they  ap- 
pear to  have  l)een  written  first  of  all  his  extant  works. 

The  chronological  sequence  of  composition  among 
Aristotle's  treatises  is  determined  by  critics,  conjectu- 
rally  and  approximately,  entirelj^on  internal  evidence. 
There  are  frequent  i-efereiices  from  one  treatise  to 
anotlier,  but  these  cannot  always  be  relied  on.  Often 
they  are  mere  interpolations,  not  having  been  made  by 
tiie  original  M'liter,  but  stuck  in  by  the  meddlesomeness 
of  some  editor  or  copyist;  in  other  cases  they  are 
genuine,  and  indicate  ti-uly  the  order  of  composition. 
Another  piece  of  evidence,  more  strictly  internal  and 
more  to  be  depended  on,  is  the  greater  or  less  develop- 
ment   of    doctrine   contained   in   the   different   works 


40  Tilt]  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

respectively.  Aristotle  ia  the  earlier,  and  still  more  in 
the  second  period  of  his  life,  had  doubtless  made  great 
preparation  for  the  writing  of  all  his  great  works. 
Still,  as  he  successively  took  up  each  subject  and 
concentrated  his  attention  upon  it,  he  did  not  fail  to 
develop  and  push  further  his  previous  thought  upon 
it.  Thus,  for  instance,  the  "  Rhetoric"  is  full  of  ethical 
remarks  and  ethical  doctrine,  but  when  we  come  to 
read  the  "Ethics"  we  find  the  same  ethical  questions 
repeated  and  treated  with  far  greater  depth  and  pre- 
cision; and  we  may  reasonably  conclude  that  the 
"Ethics"  was  the  later-written  treatise  of  the  two. 

Following  out  indications  of  this  kind,  we  arrive  at 
the  conclusion  that  Aristotle  first  took  in  hand  the 
science  of  method,  and  that,  of  all  his  extant  works, 
the  "Topics"  (or  Logic  of  Probabilify),  were  first 
written,  all  but  the  eighth  book;  next  tlie  "Analytics" 
(or  Logic  of  Demonstration);  next  the  eighth  book  of 
the  "  Topics;"  next  Books  I.  and  II.  of  the  "  Rhetoric" 
(which  has  to  do  with  the  setting  forth  of  truth);  and 
then  the  "  Sophistical  Refutations"  (or  treatise  on  Fal- 
lacies), which  belongs  to  logic,  yet  still  has  a  connection 
with  the  art  of  rhetoric.  After  thus  far  treating  of  the 
method  of  knowledge  and  expression,  Aristotle  appears 
to  have  gone  on  to  treat  of  the  matter  of  knowledge, 
and  to  have  commenced  with  the  practical  sciences. 
First  he  wrote  his  "  Ethic'?."  though  these  were  not  quite 
finished,  and  afterwards  his  "  Politics,"  and  then  he  was 
led  on  to  take  up  constructive  science,  and  to  write  his 
small  work  "On  Poetry,"  after  which  he  reverted  to 
his  "Rhetoric,"  which  was  a  cognate  subject,  and  added 
a  third  book  to  that  treatise.  He  now  proce.edcd,  though 
leaving  much  that  was  unfinished  behind  him,  to  the 
composition  of  his  great  series  of  physical  treatises.  The 


ARISTOTLE.  41 

first  of  these  to  be  written  was  probably  the  "  Ph3'si' 
cal  Discourse,"  which  unfolded  the  general  notions  of 
natural  philosophy,  and  gave  an  account  of  what  Aris- 
totle conceived  under  the  terms  **  Nature,"  "Motion," 
"Time,"  "Space,"  "  Causation,"  and  the  like.  After 
these  prolegoynena  to  physics,  he  w^ent  on  to  treat  of 
the  universe  in  orderly  sequence,  beginning  with  the 
divinest  part,  the  circumference  of  the  whole,  or  outer 
heaven,  which,  according  to  his  views,  bounded  the 
world,  being  composed  of  ether,  a  substance  distinct 
from  that  of  the  four  elements.  This  region  was  the 
sphere  of  the  stars;  and  below  it,  in  the  Aristotelian 
system,  was  tlie  planetary  sphere,  with  the  seven  planets 
(the  sun  and  moon  being  reckoned  among  the  number) 
moving  in  it.  Both  stars  and  planets  he  seems  to  have 
regarded  as  conscious,  happy  beings,  moving  in  fixed 
orbits,  and  inhabiting  regions  free  from  all  change  and 
chance;  and  these  regions  formed  the  subject  of  his 
treatise  "  On  the  Heavens."  Next  to  this  he  is  thought 
to  have  composed  his  work  "  On  Generation  and  Cor- 
ruption," in  order  to  expound  those  principles  of  physi- 
cal change  (dependent  on  the  hot,  the  cold,  the  wet, 
and  the  dry),  which  in  the  higher  parts  of  the  universe 
had  no  existence.  This  treatise  formed  the  transition 
to  the  sublunary  sphere,  immediatelj^  round  the  earth, 
in  which  the  meteors  and  comets  moved,  and  which  was 
characterized  by  incessant  change,  and  by  the  passing 
of  things  into  and  out  of  existence,  and  which  became 
the  subject  of  his  next  treatise — the  "Meteorologies." 
The  last  book  of  this  work  brings  us  down  to  the  earth 
itself,  and  indeed  beneath  its  surface,  for  it  discusses, 
in  a  curious  theory,  the  formation  of  rocks  and  metals. 
From  this  point  Aristotle  would  seem  to  have  started 
afresh  with  his  array  of  physiological  treatises,  the  first 


42  THE  ELZEVIH   LliiUAIiV. 

written  of  which  may  very  likely  have  been  that  "  On 
the  Parts  of  Animals, "  as  containing  general  principles  of 
anatomy  and  physiology.  Next  it  seems  probable  that 
the  v7ork  "  On  the  Soul"  was  produced,  which  was  a 
physiological  account  of  the  vital  principle  as  manifested 
in  plants,  animals,  and  men.  A  set  of  Appendices,  as 
we  should  now  call  them,  on  various  functions  con- 
nected with  life  in  general,  such  as  sensation,  memory, 
sleep,  dreaming,  longevity,  death,  etc.,  were  added  by 
Aristotle  to  his  work  "  On  tlie  Soul."  Afterwards,  the 
ten  books  of  "Researches  on  Animals,"  and  the  five 
books  "On  the  Generation  of  Animals,"  together  witli 
the  minor  treatise  "  On  the  Progression  of  Animals," 
and  with  a  collection  of  "Problems"  wliich  Aristotle 
probably  kept  by  him,  and  added  to  from  time  to  time, 
made  up  the  series  of  his  physical  and  physiological 
writings,  so  far  as  he  lived  to  complete  them.  Treatises 
"  On  the  Physiology  of  Plants,"  and  "On  Health  and 
Disease,"  had  been  promised  by  him,  but  were  never 
achieved.  Simultaneously  with  some  of  the  works  now 
mentioned,  but  in  idea  last  of  his  writings,  and  intended 
to  be  the  crown  of  them  all,  the  "  Metaphysics"  were 
probably  in  course  of  composition  when  the  death  of 
Aristotle  occurred. 

It  has  been  generally  fancied  that  Aristotle  was  a 
very  voluminous  writer,  and  Diogenes  Laertius,  in 
transcribing  the  "Alexandrian  Catalogue,"  remarks  of 
him  that  "he  wrote  exceedingly  many  books."  We, 
however,  have  no  reason  for  joining  in  this  opinion. 
His  genuine  works  that  have  come  down  to  us,  fill 
altogether  less  than  3000  pages,  and  this  amount  in 
mere  point  of  quantity  is  not  anything  unusual  or  sur- 
prising. Even  if  these  works  were  composed,  as  wo 
suppose  them  for  the  ino"><-  Dart  to  have  been,  during 


ARISTOTLE.  43 

\\\2  last  thirteen  years  of  his  life,  still,  so  far  as  quantity 
alouc  is  concerned,  that  does  not  imply  more  than  the 
exercise  of  a  persistent  industry.  Many  another  man 
besides  Aristotle  has  written  as  much  as  200  pages  a 
year  for  thirteen  years  successively.  Nor  is  it  necessary 
to  credit  Aristotle  with  any  great  bulk  of  writings  be- 
yond what  we  possess,  The  writings  of  his  early  life, 
ihc  dialogues,  sketches,  memoranda,  and  first  efforts  of 
his  philosophic  pen,  which  got  to  Alexandria,  need  not 
be  highly  estimated,  even  as  to  mass.  They  were 
probably  eked  out,  as  we  have  seen,  by  Peripatetic 
imitators,  and  were  thus  made  to  assume  larger  pro- 
portions. One  important  piece  of  Aristotle's  labor  has 
perished,  namely,  his  "Collection  of  the  Constitutions 
of  Greek  Cities."  This  would  have  been  of  the  utmost 
interest  as  contributing  to  our  knowledge  of  ancient 
history;  but  it  was  merely  a  compilation  of  facts,  and 
probably  would  not  have  filled  more  than  400  or  500 
pages.  On  the  whole,  it  is  not  for  voluminousness  tliat 
Aristotle  is  to  be  wondered  at.  The  marvel  begins 
when  we  come  to  contemplate  the  solid  and  compressed 
contents  of  his  writings,  their  vast  and  various  scope, 
and  the  amount  of  original  thought  given  through 
them  to  the  world.  It  would  have  been  enough  for 
any  one  man's  lasting  reputation  to  have  created  the 
science  of  Logic,  as  Aristotle  did;  but  in  addition  to 
this  he  wrote  as  a  specialist,  a  discoverer,  and  an  organ 
izer,  on  at  least  a  dozen  other  of  the  greatest  subjects, 
and  on  each  of  them  he  was  for  many  centuries  accepted 
as  the  one  authority.  Such  a  position  it  is  of  course 
impossible  for  any  nlodern  to  attain,  but  it  was  given 
to  the  powerful  mind  of  Aristotle  to  attain  it,  owing  to 
l!iG  peculiar  cu'cumstances  of  his  epoch,  and  to  the 
course  of  succeeding  history. 


44  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE   "ORGANON"  of  ARISTOTLE. 

"Organon,"  or  "the  instrument,"  was,  as  we  have 
said,  the  name  given  by  Aristotle's  ancient  editors  to 
liis  collective  works  on  Logic.  And  from  this  of  course 
Bacon  took  the  title  of  "Novum  Organum,"  or  "the 
new  instrument,"  for  his  own  work,  in  which  the  prin- 
ciples and  method  of  modern  science  were  to  be  devel- 
oped. We  find  the  '  *  Orgauon  "  of  Aristotle,  as  it  stands 
in  our  editions,  to  consist  of  six  treatises,  respectively 
entitled  "Categories,"  "  On  Interpretation,"  First  Series 
of  Analytics,"  "  Second  Series  of  Analytics,"  "  Topics," 
and  "Fallacies  "  The  two  first  of  these  are  quite  short, 
both  together  filling  less  than  60  pages,  but  they  have 
been  more  read  and  commented  on,  especially  in  the 
middle  ages,  than  all  the  rest  of  Aristotle  put  together. 
Thousands  of  scholars,  who  considered  themselves 
stanch  Aristotelians,  and  as  such  fought  the  battle  of 
Nominalism  against  the  Platonists,  knew  not  a  word  of 
Aristotle  beyond  these  two  treatises.  And  yet,  uufor- 
timately,  it  is  open  to  considerable  doubt  whether  either 
of  the  two  was  actually  written  by  Aristotle  himself. 

During  the  first  periods  of  his  life,  Aristotle  had 
gradually  forged  the  chief  doctrines  of  his  philosophy, 
and  a  peculiar  set  of  terms  in  which  thej'^  were  em- 
bodied. When  lie  came  to  write  continuousl3%  in  his 
third  period,  he  often  assumed  these  doctrines  and 
terms  as  already  known,  having  doubtless  given  them 
considerable  publicity  in  oral  discourse,  if  not  in  essays 
and  short  treatises  Avjiich  have  now  been  lost.  And 
thus  it  frequently  happens  that  we  meet  with  terms 
and  doctrines  the  mcanino:  of  which  has  to  be  gathen  d 


ABISTOTLE.  45 

by  implication,  as  it  is  never  explicitly  stated.  This  is 
the  case  with  Aristotle's  celebrated  doetriue  of  "the 
Categories,"  to  which  he  repeatedly  refers,  without  ever 
telling  us  clearly  what  position  in  his  system  it  is  meant 
to  hold.  Perhaps  the  simplest  account  of  this  doctrine 
is  to  say  that  it  sprang  from  an  analysis  and  classi- 
fication, made  by  Aristotle,  of  the  things  which  men 
speak  of.  "Category,"  in  Greek,  meant  "speaking 
of"  something.  Now,  when  we  speak  of  anything,  we 
shall  find  (so  Aristotle  implies)  that  we  are  either 
speaking  of  "a  substance" — as,  for  instance,  of  a  parti- 
cular man;  or  else  that  we  are  asserting  something  to 
be  the  case  about  something  else.  And  what  we  can 
i\ssert  about  anything  else  must  be  either  (1)  some 
"quality"  it  possesses;  (3)  its  "quantity;"  (3)  some 
"relation"  in  which  it  stands;  (4)  the  "place"  of  its 
existence;  (5)  the  "time"  of  its  existence;  (6)  its 
"action,"  or  what  it  does;  (7)  its  "passion,"  or  what 
is  done  to  it;  (8)  its  "attitude;"  or  (9)  its  "habit"  or 
dress.  "Substance"  and  the  above  nine  modes  of 
speaking  of  it  make  up  the  list  of  the  Ten  Categories,  as 
enumerated  by  Aristotle  in  his  "Topics"  (I.  9),  and  also 
in  the  little  treatise  which  professes  to  treat  especially 
of  this  subject. 

A  complete  classification  of  the  things  which  we  can 
speak  of  must  include  everything  that  we  can  think  of, 
and  therefore  all  the  world.  But  the  "  Ten  Categories" 
of  Aristotle  cannot  fail  to  strike  us  as  a  curious  sum- 
mary of  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth.  Attitude  and 
Habit,  or  Dress,  the  9th  and  10th  "Categories,"  are 
so  exclusively  human  that  we  are  surprised  to  find 
them  introduced  among  genera  of  far  wider  application. 
Some  critics  say  that  the  list  is  both  redundant  in  one 
way  and  deficient  in  another.     They  say  that  it  is 


46  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

redundaut  because  the  whole  thing  might  be  cut  down 
to  two  heads— Substance  and  Relation;  and  deficient 
because  to  none  of  the  "Categories"  could  mental  states 
and  feelings  be  appropriately  assigned.  However,  Aris- 
totle might  perhaps  have  said  that  they  came  under 
Quality,  Action,  or  Passion,  as  the  case  might  be.  In 
other  parts  of  his  works  lie  gives  enumerations  of  the 
•*  Categories,"  naming  8,  6,  or  4,  instead  of  10.  In  one 
place  ("Met."  VI.  iv.)  he  names  the  first  five  "  Catego- 
ries," with  "  Motion"  added  as  a  sixth.  Tliis  last  would 
certainly,  according  to  his  view,  include  the  various 
operations  of  the  mind.  On  the  whole,  Aristotle  does 
not  appear  to  have  laid  much  stress  on  his  table  of 
"  Categories"  as  containing  an  exhaustive  division  of  all 
things.  Probably  at  first  this  table  was  the  result  of  a 
study  in  language,  made  at  a  time  when  logical  and 
even  grammatical  distinctions  were  in  their  infancy. 
Aristotle  took  the  idea  of  a  particular  man — say  Callias 
— and  called  this  "  Substance,"  and  then  tried  how  many 
different  kinds  of  assertions  could  be  made  about  him; 
and  when  he  had  reduced  these  to  9,  he  was  perhaps 
pleased,  because  "  Substance,"  and  the  9  kinds  of  asser- 
tion made  about  it,  made  up  10  "Categories,"  and  10 
is  a  perfect  number.  He  afterwards  dropped  this  par- 
ticular number,  and  the  "  Categories"  which  had  been 
brought  in  at  the  end  of  the  list  to  eke  it  out.  He 
seems  always  to  have  thought  a  classification  of  tlie  ways 
in  which  we  speak  of  things  to  be  useful  for  obtain- 
ing clear  notions.  But  he  was  far  too  sensible  to  appl}'- 
his  original  table  of  "  Ten  Categories"  as  a  Procrustean 
bed  for  measuring  everything  in  the  universe.  At  the 
same  time  it  must  be  confessed  tliat  it  lias  been  preva- 
lently thought  that  he  did  so.  Thus  Bacon  contempt- 
uously accused  him  of  "constructing  the  world  out  of 


ARISTOTLE.  47 

his  'Categories.'"  But  this  arose  very  much  from  the 
fact  that  the  first  book  of  the  "Organou"  was  read  out 
of  all  proportion  more  than  Aristotle's  great  philosoph- 
ical treatises,  and  so  it  came  about  that  the  Aristotelian 
schoolmen  attached  an  exaggerated  importance  to  the 
table  of  which  it  treats,  and  their  sins  have  been  im- 
puted to  the  Stagirite  himself. 

The  little  book  before  us,  which  has  exercised  so 
much  influence,  might  be  described  as  a  logical  mono- 
graph on  the  characteristics  of  some  of  the  "Catego- 
ries." After  naming  the  ten,  without  an}^  account  of 
the  manner  in  which  they  are  arrived  at,  it  discusses  to  a 
certain  extent  the  fii-st  four  only.  Theu  some  chapters 
are  appended,  which  may  or  may  not  have  been  origi- 
nally a  separate  paper,  on  the  different  ways  in  which 
things  are  called  "  opposite,"  etc.  There  are  two  or 
three  hypotheses  possible  about  the  book  entitled 
*'  Categories."  Either  it  was  an  early  essay  written  by 
Aristotle  himself,  and  preserved  among  liis  MSS. :  or 
it  consists  of  notes  from  his  school,  made  by  some 
scholar  during  his  lifetime;  or  else  it  is  the  work  of 
some  Peripatetic,  drawn  up  after  his  death,  when  the 
making  of  such  tracts  had  become  a  fashion.  Style  is 
not  a  sufficient  guide  in  such  a  question,  because  the 
Peripatetics  closely  imitated  the  manner  of  their  master. 
The  chief  reason  for  thinking  that  this  book  cannot 
have  been  his  is  on  account  of  the  extreme  nominalism 
of  its  doctrine.  Aristotle  in  the  "Metaphysics"  (VI. 
vii.  4)  asserts  that  the  universal  is  the  "first  substance," 
while  the  individual  has  a  secondary  and  derivative  ex- 
istence; but  it  is  asserted  in  the  "Categories"  that  the 
individual  is  the  first  substance,  and  that  if  individuals 
were  swept  away  universals  would  cease  to  exist.  Ar- 
istotle may  have  said  this  in  the  earl}-^  days  of  his  antag- 


48  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

onism  against,  Pinto;  if  so,  he  seems  to  have  reverted 
in  maturer  life  to  something  nearer  approaching,  though 
distinguishable  from,  Plato's  view.  There  are,  how- 
ever, unphilosophical  and  un- Aristotelian  things  in  the 
boolc — as,  for  instance,  the  saying  (''Cat."  vii.  21)  that 
*'  if  knowledge  ceased  to  exist,  the  thing  known  might 
still  remain."  All  this  looks  like  the  work  of  a  clever 
but  somewhat  materialistic  follower  of  the  Peripatetic 
school. 

The  book  which  we  find  standing  second  in  the 
"  Organon"  is  the  little  treatise  "On  Interpretation," 
or,  as  it  might  be  called,  "On  Language  as  the  Inter- 
preter of  Thought."  Its  subject  is  that  which  in  Logic 
is  called  the  "proposition" — that  is  to  say,  it  treats  of 
sentences  which  afRrm  or  deny  something.  Modern 
Logic  is  divided  into  three  parts,  treating  respectively 
of  terms,  propositions,  and  syllogisms;  and  it  might  for 
a  moment  be  supposed  that  the  three  works,  "  Catego- 
ries," "On  Interpretation,"  and  "  Analytics,"  corre- 
spond to  these  three  divisions.  But  this  is  only  superfi- 
cially the  case;  for  the  "Categories"  does  not  treat 
generally  of  simple  terms,  it  only  touches  on  some 
characteristics  of  the  names  of  Substances,  Qualities, 
Quantities,  and  Relations.  And  the  book  "On  Inter- 
pretation" is  not  a  prelude  to  the  "Analytics;"  it  is  a 
separate  logical  monograph  on  some  of  the  character- 
istics of  propositions,  containing,  at  the  same  time, 
some  remarks  on  words,  as  fit  or  unfit  to  become  terms 
— on  indefinite  words,  "  syn-categorematic"  words, 
etc.  The  great  merit  of  this  little  treatise  is  undeniable, 
especially  when  considered  as  containing  matter  which 
though  now  long  accepted  and  perfectly  trite,  was  in  a 
great  measure  new  in  the  time  of  Aristotle,  and  which 
served  towards  the  clearing  up  of  many  a  confusion. 


ARISTOTLE.  49 

All  those  clear  statements  about  the  uature  of  the  prop- 
osition; on  what  is  meant  by  "  contrariety"  and  "con-, 
tradiction;"  on  "modal  propositions,"  or  propositions 
in  which  the  amount  of  certainty  is  expressed  by  the 
words  "necessarily"  or  "probably;"  and  other  points 
which  the  reader  will  find  in  the  second  part  of  Whate- 
ly's  "Logic,"  are  taken  almost  verbatim  from  this 
treatise.  There  is  one  point  of  which  Whately  was 
especially  fond — namely,  that  "  truth"  is  the  attribute  of 
a  proposition  or  assertion  and  of  nothing  else,  except  in 
a  metaphorical  way.  This  comes  from  the  work  before 
us,  where  it  is  laid  down  as  the  first  characteristic  of  a 
proposition  that  it  must  be  either  true  or  false.  A  dis- 
tinction, however,  is  here  drawn,  for  propositions  ad- 
mit the  idea  of  time.  Now,  it  is  the  case  with  regard 
to  propositions  of  past  and  present  time — for  instance, 
"it  is  raining,"  or  "it  rained  yesterday" — that  they 
nmst  either  be  true  or  false;  but  with  regard  to  future 
propositions  this  is  not  the  case;  for  suppose  we  say 
"there  will  be  a  battle  to-morrow  between  the  Turks 
and  Servians" — this  may  be  probable  or  improbable, 
but  it  is  neither  true  nor  false.  Obviously,  there  is  no 
existing  fact  with  which  to  compare  such  propositions, 
and  thus  to  pronounce  on  their  truth  or  falsehood.  But 
It  is  argued  here  that  if  future  propositions,  or  prophe- 
cies, could  be  pronounced  to  be  certainly  true,  it  would 
do  away  with  human  agency  and  free-will.  This  may 
seem  hardly  worth  enunciating,  but  it  was  new  at  the 
time  when  this  book  was  written. 

The  writer,  in  considering  "modal  propositions," 
which  assert  things  as  necessary,  probable,  or  possible, 
introduces  some  discussion  on  "possibility,"  and  men- 
tions three  heads  of  the  possible.  Ordinarily,  things  in 
this  world  are  first  possible,  and  then  become  realized. 


50  TllK  ELZEVIIi  LIBUAUY. 

or  actual;  but  there  is  another  chiss  of  things  whicli  are 
always  actual,  and  the  possibility  in  them  is  only  latent 
or  implied — such  are  the  "first  substances"  which  have 
existed  from  all  eternity;  and  thirdly,  there  is  a  class 
of  thiugs  which  always  seem  possible,  and  yet  can 
never  be  realized— for  instance,  the  greatest  number  or 
the  least  quantity,  which,  while  we  speak  of  them,  no 
one  can  ever  say  that  he  has  reached.  In  this  passage 
we  find  ourselves  rather  in  the  region  of  Metaphysics 
than  of  Logic,  and  ii  is  reme-^kable  that  here  tlie  phrase 
"  first  substances"  is  used,  not,  as  in  the  "  Categories," 
to  denote  ordinary  individual  existences  on  the  earth, 
but  as  a  term  to  denote  the  eternal,  primeval  substances 
which  have  never  not  been,  such  as,  in  Aristotle's  view, 
were  the  stars,  and  sun,  and  planets. 

The  treatise  "On  Interpretation"  was  evidently  not 
written  at  the  same  time  with  the  "  Categories,"  or  is  by 
a  different  author,  and  on  a  different  plane  of  thought. 
It  is  more  philosophical  and  more  Aristotelian  ;  it  quotes 
both  the  "Analytics"  and  the  work  "On  the  Soul,"  and 
therefore  cannot  be  an  early  production  of  the  Stagi- 
rite's.  There  is  a  tradition  that  Andronicus  of  Rhodes 
held  that  this  treatise  was  not  written  by  Aristotle  at 
all,  while  Ammonius,  a  great  commentator,  argued  in 
favor  of  its  genuineness.  Their  arguments,  which  have 
been  preserved,  do  not  seem  conclusive  one  way  or  the 
other.  Perhaps  the  only  reason  against  considerinc; 
this  to  have  been  the  writing  of  Aristotle  himself  is, 
that  while  it  obviously  is  as  late  as  the  period  of  his 
great  treatises,  it  is  not  in  the  manner  of  those  treatises. 
On  the  whole,  it  seems  safest  to  conclude  that  this  littlo 
book  must  consist  of  the  notes  of  Aristotle's  oral  teaching 
upon  the  elementary  bases  of  Logic,  faithfully  recording 
his  ideas,  and  ofte'ithe  \('\   words  which  he  had  us'- ' 


AimSTOTLli:.  51 

Wc  may  set  aside,  then,  the  "  Categories"  and  the 
'•  Inlerpretalion"  as  of  doubtful  origin,  and  as  at  all 
events  not  having  been  originally  intended  for  the 
place  which  they  have  so  long  held  in  the  forefront  of 
tiie  writings  of  Aristotle.  We  turn  to  that  which  was, 
so  far  as  we  know,  in  reality  the  opening  treatise  of 
the  Aristotelian  Eucyclopgedia — namely,  the  "  Topics;" 
and  there  is  some  peculiarity  to  be  remarked  in  the 
very  fact  that  the  subject  with  which  it  deals  should 
have  been  the  first  to  be  taken  in  hand.  We  know  that 
Aristotle  founded,  and  all  but  completed,  the  science  of 
Logic;  but  we  are  apt  to  forget  that,  when  he  began  to 
write,  the  very  idea  that  there  was,  or  could  be,  such  a 
science  had  never  come  into  anybody's  head.  What 
pliilosophers  then  knew  about,  and  prjicticed,  and  for- 
mulated, was  not  Logic,  or  tlie  science  of  the  laws  of 
reasoning,  but  Dialectic,  or  the  art  of  discussion.  This 
art  was  by  no  means  confined  to  pliilosophers,  but  it 
was  the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  was  widely  and  con- 
stantly in  use  in  Athenian  society,  as  an  intellectual 
game  or  fencing-malch.  The  dialogues  of  Plato  give  us 
dramatic  specimens  of  the  encounter  of  wits  which  might 
be  seen  exhibited  in  numerous  Athenian  circles  from 
the  middle  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  down  to  the  time 
of  Aristotle.  That  restless  and  intellectual  people  wiio, 
three  and  a  half  centuries  later,  w^ere  described  as 
"  spending  their  time  in  nothing  else  but  either  to  tell  or 
to  hear  some  new  thing,"  were  at  an  earlier  period  pos- 
sessed by  an  insatiate  appetite  for  discussion  and  con- 
troversy, whether  with  a  view  to  truth  or  to  mere  vic- 
tory over  an  opponent.  Dialectic  then,  as  an  art,  was 
thoroughly  recognized,  and  all  but  universally  prac- 
ticed, yet  still  the  fundamental  principles  on  which  it 
must  rest  had  never  yet  been  properly  draw^n  out,  and 


52  TIU^J  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

Aristotle  seems  to  have  felt  it  to  be  the  first  task  for 
one  who  would  build  up  the  entire  fabric  of  knowledge, 
to  lay  down  the  laws  of  Dialectic  as  ihe  art  and  science 
of  method.  "  Dialectic,"  he  says,  "  is  useful  for  three 
things:  for  exercise  of  the  mind,  for  converse  with 
other  men,  and  for  knowing  how  to  question  and  handle 
the  principles  of  philosophy."  And  the  object  of  his 
"  Topics"  is,  as  he  tells  us,  *'  to  discover  a  method  by 
which  we  shall  be  able  to  reason  from  probabilities  on 
any  given  question,  and  to  defend  a  position  without 
being  driven  to  contradict  our  own  assertions." 

Properly  speaking,  Dialectic,  as  defined  by  Aristotle, 
ought  not  to  come  first  in  the  order  of  sciences,  for  it 
is  a  kind  of  applied  reasoning  ;  it  is  reasoning  applied 
to  that  which  is  not  certain,  but  only  probable.  There- 
fore the  general  principles  of  reasoning  should  be  drawn 
out  first,  and  then  these  should  be  shown  in  application 
to  the  certainties  of  science,  after  which  a  subordinate 
branch  might  be  added  on  reasoning  upon  probabilities. 
Aristotle,  however,  as  we  have  said,  did  not  set  out 
with  the  conception  of  Logic,  or  the  science  of  reason- 
ing, as  existing  by  itself.  This  only  gradually  dawned 
upon  him,  and  it  was  out  of  his  researches  in  Dialectic 
that  he  was  led  to  develop  the  idea  of  Logic.  It  was 
in  thinking  out  the  rules  of  Dialectic  that  Aristotle  dis- 
covered the  principles  of  the  Syllogism,  and  he  was 
justly  proud  of  the  discovery.  There  are  only  two 
passages  in  all  liis  extant  writings  in  which  he  speaks  of 
himself:  one  is  that  in  which  he  apologizes  for  differing 
from  Plato,  "  because  truth  must  be  preferred  to  one's 
friend;"  the  other  is  the  passage  at  the  end  of  the 
"Fallacies"  (which  is  a  sort  of  appendix  to  the 
"  Topics"),  where  he  refers  to  his  services  to  Dialectic. 
"  In  regard  to  the  process  of  syllogizing,"  he  says,  "  I 


ARISTOTLE.  58 

found  positively  nothiug  said  before  me:  I  had  to 
work  it  out  for  myself  by  long  and  laborious  research." 
The  discovery  of  tl)e  structure  of  the  syllogism — that  is 
to  say,  of  the  forms  in  which  men  do,  and  must,  reason 
about  a  great  many  things  in  life,  was  of  course  very 
useful  for  dialectical  purposes,  both  for  exposing  fal- 
lacy in  others  and  for  keeping  one's  self  straight  in  con- 
troversy. But  Aristotle,  while  in  the  course  of  writing 
his  treatise  on  Dialectic,  seems  to  have  been  impressed 
with  the  independent  importance  of  the  theory  of  the 
Syllogism,  and  of  the  necessity  for  a  simple,  unapplied 
Logic.  So,  after  completing  seven  books  of  his 
"Topics,"  he  dropped  the  subject,  and  went  on  to 
write  his  first  and  second  series  of  "  Analytics;"  and  it 
was  only  after  he  had  finished  these  two  great  works 
that  he  returned  to  complete  the  "  Topics,"  by  the  ad- 
dition of  an  eighth  book. 

The  "Topics,"  as  their  name  implies,  are  the  books 
"treating  of  places,"  and  "places"  are  seats  of  argu- 
ments, or  matters  in  which  arguments  may  be  found. 
Aristotle  in  a  long  course  of  observation  and  analysis 
had  apparently  noted  down  the  heads  of  reasonings 
most  likely  to  be  available  for  either  attack  or  defence 
in  dialectical  controversy,  and  he  here  sets  these  forth 
in  seven  books.  His  object  is  to  educate  the  reader  to 
be  a  skillful  dialectician  in  Athenian  arenas.  He  names 
the  four  chief  instruments  for  this  purpose:  1st,  To 
make  a  large  collection  of  propositions — i.e.,  authorita- 
tive sayings,  whether  of  great  men  or  of  the  many;  2d, 
To  study  the  different  senses  in  which  terms  are  used; 
3d,  To  detect  differences;  4th,  To  note  resemblances. 
The  last  three  out  of  these  four  suggestions  are  ex- 
panded at  great  length,  and  Aristotle  tells  us  how  to 
use  various  logical  distinctions,  here  brought  forward 


54  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

for  the  first  time,  in  pulling  to  pieces  the  arguments  of 
an  opponent — for  instance,  how  to  use  tlie  heads  of  pretl- 
icables  {genus,  differentia,  proprium,  and  accidenfi),  or 
the  categories,  or  tlie  several  kinds  of  logical  oi)position, 
for  this  purpose.  The  first  seven  books  of  the  "  Topics" 
scarcely  touch  at  all  upon  dialectical  method,  ihe}'^  are 
quite  taken  up  with  a  wearisome  aud  seemingly  endless 
list  of  heads  of  argumentation.  The  eighth  book,  writ- 
ten later,  adds  some  counsel  upon  the  nrraiigenunt  and 
marshalling  of  your  arguments,  whether  y(-u  be  the  re- 
spondent defending  a  thesis,  or  the  interrogator  who 
attacks  it.  Some  of  these  pieces  of  advice  might  be 
characterized  as  "dodges;"  for  instance,  when  we  are 
told  how  to  conceal  from  our  adversaiy  what  we  want 
to  prove,  till  we  have  got  him  to  admit  something  which 
would  really  imply  the  point  we  are  aiming  at.  In 
Dialectic,  as  in  love  and  war,  almost  everything  was 
fair.  And  yet  Aristotle  concludes  his  treatise  by  say- 
ing, "You  must,  however,  take  care  not  to  carry  en 
this  exercise  with  every  one,  especially  with  a  vulgar- 
minded  man.  With  some  persons  the  dispute  cannot 
fail  to  take  a  discreditable  turn.  When  the  respondent 
tries  to  make  a  show  of  escaping  by  unworthy  maneu- 
vers, the  questioner  on  his  part  must  be  unscrupulous 
also  in  syllogizing;  but  this  is  a  disgraceful  scene.  To 
keep  clear  of  such  abusive  discourse,  you  must  be  cau- 
tious not  to  discourse  with  commonplace,  unprepared 
respondents." 

Athenian  Dialectic  has  passed  away,  though  it  had  a 
faint  and  clumsy  revival  in  the  "Disputations"  of  the 
middle  ages.  Even  as  a  preparation  for  ordinary  con- 
troversy and  debate,  it  is  questionable  whether  a  study 
of  Aristotle's  "Topics"  would  nowadays  be  found  use- 
ful, except  80  far  as  the  logical  distinctions  which  it 


AlUSWTLE.  55 

contains  might  sharpen  the  intellect.  But  this  latter 
result  might  equally  well  be  attained  by  study iiii;  the 
ordinary  logics  into  which  all  those  distinctions  have 
been  transplanted.  The  "  Topics,"  at  the  time  when  it 
was  written,  was  a  work  of  original  penetration,  and  of 
vast  accumulative  labor.  Aristotle  perhaps  ought  to 
have  foreseen  that  it  would  not  be  worth  his  while  to 
reduce  Atlienian  Dialectic  to  a  methodized  system,  but 
ho  did  not;  and  much  of  what  he  accumulated  for  one 
purpose,  came  to  have  great  value  for  another.  The 
chief  merit  of  the  "  Topics"  of  Aristotle  is,  that  while 
intended  to  be  the  permanent  regulator  of  Dialectic,  it 
became  in  reality  the  cradle  of  Logic. 

Aristotle  himself  did  not  use  the  word  "Logic," 
which  was  probably  invented  afterwards  by  the  Stoics; 
he  spoke  of  "  Analytic,"  by  which  he  meant  the  science 
of  analyzing  the  forms  of  reasoning.  We  come  now  to 
his  "Prior  and  Posterior"  (or  First  and  Second  Series 
of)  "Analytics."  In  these  works  he  has  produced  noth- 
ing temporary,  or  of  merely  antiquarian  interest,  but  an 
addition  to  human  knowledge  as  complete  in  itself,  as 
permanent,  and  as  irrefragable,  as  the  Geometry  of 
Euclid.  It  is  true  that  Aristotle  did  not  cover  and  ex- 
haust the  entire  field  in  reasoning,  just  as  Euclid  did 
not  exhaust  the  theory  of  all  the  properties  of  space. 
But  so  far  as  he  went  Aristotle  was  perfect.  His  work 
took  its  origin  out  of  the  examination  of  dialectical  con- 
troversies, which,  at  the  time  when  he  wrote,  much 
predominated  over  all  that  we  should  think  worthy  of 
the  name  of  physical  science,  and  therefore  his  aim  was 
limited  to  the  analysis  of  deductive  reasonings.  But 
men  still  reason  deductively,  and  will  always  do  so; 
during  a  great  part  of  life  we  are  employed,  not  in  find- 
ing out  new  laws  of  nature,  but  in  applying  what  Ave 


56  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBEAET. 

kuew  before,  in  appealing  to  general  beliefs,  or  sup- 
posed classes  of  facts,  and  in  drawing  our  positive  or 
negative  conclusions  accordingly.  To  all  this  process, 
whenever  it  occurs,  the  "Analytics"  of  Aristotle  are  as 
ai)plicable  as  the  principles  of  Geometry  are  to  every 
fresh  mensuration. 

Aristotle  invented  the  v/ord  "Syllogism,"  for  the  pro- 
cess of  putting  two  assertions  together  and  out  of  them 
deducing  a  third.  This  word  indeed  existed  before  in 
Greek  literature,  but  in  a  general  sense,  meaning  "com- 
putation," "  reckoning" or  "consideration."  But  Aris- 
totle stamped  it  with  the  technical  meaning  which  it 
has  ever  since  borne.  In  introducing  the  word,  how- 
ever, it  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  introduced,  or 
invented,  the  process  of  reasoniug  to  which  he  applied 
it,  or  that  he  ever  pretended  to  do  so.  Yet  he  has  been 
ridiculed,  as  if  this  had  been  the  case — as  for  instance 
by  Locke,  who  says  that  it  would  be  strange  if  God 
had  made  men  two-legged,  and  left  it  to  Aristotle  to 
make  them  rational!  The  grammarian  who  first  dis- 
tinguished nouns  from  verbs  and  gave  them  their  names, 
did  not  invent  nouns  and  verbs,  but  only  called  atten- 
tion to  their  existence  in  language;  and  he  who  first 
made  rules  of  syntax  was  only  recording  the  ways  in 
which  men  naturally  speak  and  write,  not  making  in- 
novations in  language;  and  so  Aristotle  with  his  "  Syl- 
logism" only  clearly  pointed  out  a  process  which  had 
always,  though  unconsciously,  been  carried  on.  There 
is  no  doubt  that,  ever  since  they  have  possessed  reason 
lit  all,  men  have  made  syllogisms,  though,  like  M.  Jour- 
dain  making  prose,  they  have  for  tlie  most  part  been 
imaware  of  it. 

The  "First  Series  of  Analytics"  is  entirely  devoted 
to  the  theory  of  the  Syllogism,  w  ith  a  few  collateral  dis- 


ARISTOTLE.  57 

cussions.  It  has  no  connection  with  the  treatise  "On 
Interpretation,"  from  wliich,  iu  phraseology  and  some 
points  of  doctrine,  it  differs.  It  is  a  worli  which  must 
excite  our  wonder  if  we  consider  the  seriied  mass  of  ob- 
servations wliich  it  contains,  and  the  absolutely  com- 
plete way  in  which  it  constructs  a  science  and  provides 
for  it  an  appropriate  nomenclature.  Though  countless 
generations  of  commentators  and  schoolmen  have  been 
busy  with  the  "Analytics,"  and  many  modern  philoso- 
phers have  independently  treated  of  Logic,  none  of 
them  have  been  able  to  add  a  single  point  of  any  im- 
portance to  Aristotle's  theory  of  deductive  reasoning. 
The  "  Analytics"  are  of  course  not  light  reading.  The 
style  is  severely  scientific,  and  concisely  expository;  not 
a  single  grace  of  ornament,  not  a  superfluous  word,  is 
admitted.  As  Aristotle  introduced  into  these  treatises 
a  copious  use  of  the  letters  A,  B,  C,  to  denote  the  three 
terms  of  the  syllogism,  many  parts  read  like  Euclid 
with  the  diagrams  omitted.  It  is  not  necessary  to  at- 
tempt any  further  description  of  the  contents,  or  to  give 
here  an  account  of  the  figures  and  moods  of  syllogisms, 
of  conversion  of  propositions,  reduction  of  syllogisms 
to  the  first  figure,  and  the  rest,  because  all  these  things 
have  found  their  way  into  modern  compendiums.  Are 
they  not  written  in  Aldrich,  and  Mansel,  and  Whately, 
many  other  books? 

Yet  there  is  one  passage  of  the  "  Prior  Analytics" 
which  we  must  quote  in  bare  justice  to  Aristotle. 
Owing  to  the  too  exclusive  study  of  his  logical  works 
in  the  middle  ages,  and  owing  to  modern  writers  iden- 
tifying him  with  the  absurdities  of  his  followers,  an 
idea  arose  that  he,  like  the  least  judicious  of  the  school- 
men, thought  that  all  reasoning  should  be  through  syl- 
logisms, that  nature  could  be  expounded  by  means  of 


58  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

syllogisms,  and  that  syllogisms  were  a  source  of  knowl- 
edge. Hence  came  protests  like  that  of  Bacon,  that 
"the  syllogism  is  unequal  to  the  subtlety  of  nature." 
But  nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth  than  the 
whole  idea.  The  reader  may  be  assured  that  on  a  point 
of  this  kind  Aristotle  was  as  sensible  as  Lord  Bacon  or 
John  Stuart  Mill.  After  showing  that  syllogisms  are 
constantly  used,  and  after  analyzing  their  form,  and 
showing  on  what  their  validity  depends,  he  proceeds  to 
make  some  remarks  on  the  way  in  which  the  major 
premise,  or  general  statement  in  the  syllogism,  is  to  be 
obtained.  He  says  ("Prior  Anal."  I.  xxx.):  "There  is 
the  same  course  to  be  pursued  in  philosopliy,  and  in 
every  science  or  branch  of  knowledge.  You  taust  study 
facts.  Experience  alone  can  give  you  general  princi- 
ples on  any  subject.  This  is  the  case  in  astronomy, 
which  is  based  on  the  observation  of  astronomical 
phenomena;  and  it  is  the  case  with  every  brancli  of 
science  or  art.  When  the  facts  in  each  brancli  are 
brought  together,  it  will  be  the  province  of  the  logician 
to  set  out  the  demonstrations  in  a  manner  clear  and  fit 
for  use.  "When  the  investigation  into  nature  is  com- 
plete, you  will  be  able  in  some  cases  to  exhibit  a  demon- 
stration; in  other  cases  you  will  have  to  say  that  demon- 
stration is  not  attainable."  Bacon  knew  very  little 
Aristotle  at  first  hand;  and  he  cannot  have  known  this 
passage,  else  its  overwhelming  good  sense  must  have 
stopped  many  of  his  remarks.  And  Aristotle  in  prac- 
tice was  quite  true  to  the  principles  here  announced. 
In  his  "Ethics,"  "Politics,"  and  "Physics,"  he  does 
not  pedantically  drag  in  the  syllogism,  but  masses  facts 
together,  and  makes  penetrating  remarks  upon  them, 
and  discusses  freely,  by  means  of  analogy,  comparison. 


ARISTOTLE.  59 

and  intuition,  very  much  as  the  ablest  writers  of  the 
present  day  would  do. 

At  the  same  time  it  must  be  admitted  that,  after  fully 
explaining  the  deductive  process,  he  left  the  theory  of 
the  inductive  process,  by  which  general  laws  are  ascer- 
tained, almost  entirely  unexplored.  He  briefly  observes 
("Prior  Anal."  II.  xxiii.)  that  "induction,  or  the  syl- 
logism that  arises  from  it,  consists  in  proving  the  major 
term  of  the  middle  by  means  of  the  minor."  In  other 
words,  suppose  that  we  are  proving  that  animals  with- 
out a  gall  are  long-lived,  we  do  so  through  our  knowl- 
edge that  man,  the  horse,  and  the  mule  have  no  gall. 
Now,  in  a  natural  deductive  syllogism,  we  should  say — 

All  animals  without  a  gall  are  long-lived; 
Man,  the  horse,  and  the  mule,  have  no  gall; 
Therefore  they  are  long-lived. 

"  Long-lived  "  is  here  the  major  term;  but  in  the  induc- 
tive process  we  prove  it  of  the  middle  term,  "  animals 
without  a  gall,"  by  means  of  the  minor  term,  "man, 
the  horse,  and  the  mule."  So  we  require  to  state  the 
inductive  syllogism  thus: 

Man,  the  horse,  and  the  mule  are  long-lived; 

Man,  the  horse,  and  the  mule  are  animals  without  a  gall; 

Therefore  (all)  animals  without  a  gaU  are  long-lived. 

Aristotle  adds  that,  for  the  validity  of  this  reasoning, 
you  require  to  have  an  intuition  in  your  reason  that 
"man,  the  horse,  and  the  mule"  are,  or  adequately 
represent,  the  whole  class  of  animals  without  a  gall. 
This  is,  in  fact,  the  crucial  question  in  the  inductive 
process — Do  the  instances  you  have  got  adequately 
represent  the  whole  class  of  similar  instances,  so  as  to 
give  you  the  key  to  a  law  of  nature?  For  instance,  if 
it  is  found  that  in  two  or  three  cases  a  particular  treat' 


60    ■  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

ment  cures  the  cholera,  how  can  you  tell  whetlier  the 
induction  is  adequate,  and  that  you  are  justified  in  as- 
serting, as  a  general  principle,  that  "such  and  such  a 
treatment  cures  the  cholera"?  Modern  logic  tells  us 
that  a  statement  of  the  kmd  requires  verification;  and 
modern  writers,  such  as  Bacon,  Whewell,  and  Mill,  are 
at  great  pains  to  point  out  the  best  methods  of  verifica- 
tion— which  after  all  consist  in  observing  and  experi- 
menting further;  in  eliminating  all  accidental  circum- 
stances; in  recording,  and,  if  possible,  accounting  for, 
the  facts  which  go  against  your  principle;  and,  finally, 
in  either  rejecting  it  as  unproven,  or  bringing  it  out  as 
completely  established  after  passing  through  the  ordeal 
of  thorough  examination.  But  the  minute  and  cautious 
methods  of  experiment  and  observation  which  have 
gradually  come  into  use  among  scientific  men  in  modern 
times  were  unknown  in  the  days  of  Aristotle;  so  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that,  having  so  much  else  to 
think  of,  he  did  not  enter  upon  this  field  of  inquiry. 
He  tells  us  repeatedly  that  we  must  draw  our  general 
principles  from  familiarity  with  particular  facts;  but 
instead  of  suggesting  methods  of  verification  for  the 
validity  of  those  principles,  he  merely  says  that  they 
must  have  the  sanction  of  our  reason.  It  seems  to 
have  been  his  idea  that,  after  gathering  facts  ud  to 
a  certain  point,  a  flash  of  intuition  would  supervene, 
telling  us,  "  This  is  a  law."  Such,  no  doubt,  has  often 
been  the  case,  as  in  Newton's  famous  discovery  of  the 
law  of  gravitation  from  seeing  an  apple  fall.  Yet  still, 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  science,  verification  ought  al- 
ways to  be  at  hand.  And  Aristotle,  in  omitting  to  pro- 
vide for  this,  left  a  blank  in  his  theory  of  the  acquire- 
ment of  knowledge. 
,    Aristotle,  like  Plato,  drew  a  strong  line  of  demarka- 


ARISTOTLE.  61 

tion  between  matters  in  which  you  can  have,  and  those 
in  which  you  cannot  liave,  certainty;  in  other  words, 
between  the  region  of  opinion  aud  tlie  region  of  sciouce. 
Syllogistic  reasoning  is  applicable  both  to  certainties 
and  probabilities,  and  as  such  it  had  been  formally 
drawn  out  in  the  "First  Analytics."  Its  application 
by  means  of  Dialectic  to  matters  of  opinion  had  been 
set  forth  (in  anticipation  of  the  natural  order  of  treat- 
ment) in  the  "  Topics;"  and  now  Aristotle  proceeded  in 
his  "  Second  Series  of  Analytics"  to  write  the  logic  of 
science,  and  to  exhibit  the  syllogism  as  the  organ  of 
demonstration. 

The  attitude  of  Science  is  of  course  different  from 
that  of  Dialectic.  In  Dialectic  two  disputants  are  re- 
quired, one  of  whom  is  to  maintain  a  thesis,  while  the 
other  by  questioning  is  to  endeavor  to  draw  from  him 
some  admission  which  shall  be  repugnant  to  that  thesis. 
In  Science,  on  the  other  hand,  we  are  not  to  suppose 
two  disputants,  but  a  teacher  and  a  learner.  Thus  the 
"Second  Analytics"  begin  with  the  words — "All 
teaching  and  all  intellectual  learning  arises  out  of  previ- 
ously existing  knowledge."  This  points  at  once  to  a 
characteristic  of  Aristotle's  view  of  Science.  In  modern 
times  we  associate  Science  most  commonly  with  the 
idea  of  the  inductive  accumulation  of  knowledge;  and 
thus  we  talk  of  "scientific  inquiry;"  but  Aristotle 
thinks  of  Science  as  deductive  and  expository,  and  iden- 
tifies it  with  "  teaching."  If  we  look  at  the  specimena 
of  scientific  reasoning  which  he  gives  us  in  this  book, 
we  shall  find  that  a  large  proportion  of  them  are  taken 
from  Geometry.  Next  to  this,  the  science  most  fre. 
quently  appealed  to  is  Astronomy,  But  he  also  men^ 
tions  Arithmetic,  Optics,  Mechanics,  Stereometry,  Har» 
monies,  and  Medicine,     Sometimes  he  refers  to  quea- 


62  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

tions  of  Natural  History,  and  at  other  times  to  questions 
of  Botany.  He  even  applies  his  scieutific  method  to 
Ethics,  and  shows  how  we  are  to  obtain  a  defl.uition  of 
the  virtue  of  magnanimity,  by  observing  the  leading 
characteristics  of  those  who  are  called  magnanimous. 
The  Sciences  are  not  classified  here,  but  a  comparative 
scale  of  perfection  among  tliera  is  indicated;  and  those 
are  generally  laid  down  lo  be  the  most  perfect  Sciences 
which  are  the  most  elementary  and  abstract.  But 
with  all  this  leaning  towards  an  ideal  of  pure  and  ab- 
stract science,  it  is  remarkable  how  much  the  Sciences 
of  Observation  are  considered  in  this  book,  and  what 
an  enlightened  and  modern  atmosphere  breathes  through 
many  parts  of  it. 

In  developing  his  idea  of  Science,  Aristotle  takes  oc- 
casion to  controvert  several  opinions  which  had  found 
vogue  in  his  day.  One  of  these  was  that  everything  in 
Science  could  be  proved.  Some  men  had  a  notion  that 
you  could  go  back  ad  iiifiiiUam  in  proving  the  princi- 
ciples  from  which  your  science  was  deduced:  "This 
principle  was  true  because  of  that,  and  that  because  of 
something  else,  and  so  on  forever."  Others  fancied 
that  by  a  kind  of  circular  reasoning  the  propositions  of 
Science  might  all  be  made  to  prove  each  other.  "  No," 
says  Aristotle,  "Science  must  commence  from  some- 
thing that  is  not  proved  at  all."  Science  must  start 
from  im-medtat6Y>m\c\\)\Q?,— i.e.,  principles  that  cannot 
be  established  by  any  middle  term,  or,  in  oilier  words, 
by  any  syllogistic  reasoning.  The  axioms  of  Euclid 
may  give  us  a  specimen  of  such  principles,  but,  accord- 
ing to  Aristotle,  each  science  had  its  own  "primary 
universal,  and  immediate  principles;"  these  principles, 
we  are  distinctly  told,  are  not  innate,  but  the  source  of 
tliera  is  the  Nous  or  Reason,  which  (as  we  have  seen) 


AllISTOTLE.  53 

attains  them  intuitively,  when  sufficiently  advised,  so  to 
speak,  by  a  course  of  inductive  observation.  Again, 
Aristotle  brings  out  here  his  opposition  to  Plato's  theory 
of  Ideas:  he  says,  that  it  is  not  necessary  for  Science 
that  the  Ideas  of  things  should  have  a  separate  exist- 
ence, but  only  that  universal  ideas,  or  genera,  should  be 
capable  of  being  predicated  of  many  individuals.  This 
view  seems  to  correspond  with  what,  in  modern  times, 
has  been  called  Conceptualism,  and  which  is  a  compro- 
mise between  Nominalism  and  Realism. 

These,  however,  are  metaphysical  distinctions.  An- 
other point  more  closely  belonging  to  the  Logic  of  Sci- 
ence is  brought  out  against  Plato — namely,  the  separate- 
ness  of  the  Sciences,  which  follows  from  each  Science 
having  its  own  appropriate  principles.  Plato  con- 
ceived, or  appeared  to  do  so,  that  from  the  principles 
of  Philosophy  {i.e.,  Metaphysics)  right  doctrines  of 
Ethics  and  Politics  could  be  deduced.  Hence  he  said, 
"It  will  never  be  well  witli  the  State  till  the  kings  are 
philosophers,  or  the  philosophers  kings."  Aristotle,  on 
the  other  hand,  considered  the  speculative  conception 
of  the  good,  as  entertained  by  a  metaphysician,  to  be 
quite  distinct  from  the  practical  conception  of  the  good 
which  occupies  the  statesman  or  the  moralist.  In  many 
ways  this  demarkation  by  Aristotle  of  the  separate 
spheres  of  different  Sciences  gave  rise  to  great  clearness 
of  view. 

The  Logic  of  Science  deals,  as  might  be  expected, 
with  the  method  of  defining  things — that  is,  of  saj'ing 
what  they  are.  But  we  do  not  here  find  the  scholastic 
idea  of  definition,  per  genus  et  differentiam,  by  stating 
the  class  to  which  a  thing  belongs,  and  the  character^ 
istic  which  separates  it  from  the  rest  of'  that  class. 
Aristotle  takes  the  more  real  and  thorough  position 


U  7 HE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

that,  to  define  a  thing  adequately,  you  must  state  its 
cause.  "  Science  itself,"  he  says,  "  is  knowledge  of  a 
cause."  But  what  is  cause?  There  are  four  kinds: 
the  "formal,"  which  is  the  whole  nature  of  a  thing, 
being  the  sum  of  the  other  three  causes;  the  "ma- 
terial," or  the  antecedents  out  of  which  the  thing  arises; 
the  "efficient,"  or  motive  power;  and  the  "final,"  or 
object  aimed  at.  Speaking  generally,  the  causes  most 
iu  use  for  scientific  definitions  are  the  efficient  and  the 
final.  We  define  an  eclipse  of  the  moon  by  its  efficient 
cause — the  interposition  of  the  earth.  We  define  a 
house  by  its  final  cause — a  structure  for  the  sake  of 
shelter. 

One  quotation,  as  a  specimen,  may  conclude  these 
glimpses  of  the  "Later  Analytics,"  or  Aristotle's 
Logic  of  Science:  "Nature,"  he  says,  "presents  a 
perpetual  cycle  of  occurrences.  When  the  earth  is  wet 
with  rain,  an  exhalation  rises;  when  an  exhalation 
rises,  a  cloud  forms;  when  a  cloud  forms,  rain  follows, 
and  the  earth  is  saturated:  so  that  the  same  term 
recurs  after  a  cycle  of  transformations.  Every  occur- 
rence has  another  for  its  consequent,  and  this  conse- 
quent another,  and  so  on,  till  we  are  brought  round  to 
the  primary  occurrence." 

After  finishing  his  "  Later  Analytics,"  Aristotle  seems 
to  have  taken  up  Rhetoric,  and  to  have  written  the 
main  part  of  his  treatise  on  that  subject.  He  then  re- 
verted to  Dialectic,  and  completed  his  exposition  of  it 
by  writing  his  book  on  "  Sophistical  Confutations," 
which  now  stands  as  the  conclusion  of  the  "Organon." 
The  matter  treated  of  in  this  book  has  a  close  connec- 
tion with  that  treated  of  in  the  "  Topics."  The  practice 
of  Dialectic  at  Athens  had  given  scope  to  a  class,  which 
gradually  arose,  of  professional   and  paid  disputants, 


AlilSTVTLE.  63 

or  professors  and  teachers  of  the  art  of  controversy. 
This  professional  class,  who  were  called  the  "  Sophists," 
got  a  bad  name  in  antiquity;  and  Aristotle  treats  them 
disparagingly  as  mere  charlatans.  Thus  while  Conten- 
tiousness is  arguing  for  victory,  he  describes  Sophistry 
as  arguing  for  gain.  The  Sophist,  according  to  Aristo- 
tle, tried  to  confute  people  and  make  them  look  foolish, 
employing  for  this  purpose,  not  fair  arguments,  but 
quibbles  and  fallacies;  and  all  this  was  done  iu  order  to 
be  thought  clever  and  to  get  pupils.  An  amusing 
picture  of  this  sort  of  process  is  given  in  Plato's  dia 
logue  called  "Euthydemus,"  where  two  professionals 
are  represented  as  bamboozling  with  verbal  tricks  an 
ingenuous  youth,  until  Socrates  by  his  dialectical  acu- 
men and  superior  wit  rescues  the  victim  from  his  tor- 
mentors, and  turns  the  tables  upon  them.  The  follow- 
ing is  a  specimen  of  the  "sophistical  confutations"  in 
"  Euthydemus:"  Who  learn,  "  the  wise  or  the  unwise?" 
"The  wise,"  is  the  reply,  given  with  blushing  and 
hesitation.  "And  yet  when  you  learned  you  did  not 
know  and  were  not  wise."  Who  are  they  who  learn 
the  dictation  of  the  grammar-master,  the  wise  boys  or 
the  foolish  boys?"  "The  wise."  "  Then  after  all  the 
wise  learn."  "And  do  they  learn  what  they  know  or 
what  they  do  not  know?"  "  The  latter."  "  And  dicta, 
tion  is  a  dictation  of  letters?"  "Yes."  "Andyouknow 
letters?"  "  Yes."  "  Then  you  learn  what  you  know.% 
"But  is  not  learning  acquiring  knowledge?"  "Yes." 
"And  you  acquire  that  which  you  have  not  got 
already?"  "Yes."  "Then  you  learn  that  which  you 
did  not  know."* 
Plato's  picture  is,  doubtless,  a  caricature,  exaggerat- 

*See  Professor  Jowett's  Introduction  to  "Euthydemus"  in  hia 
♦'  Dialogues  of  Plato,"  i.  p.  184,  2d  ed. 


^66  THE  ELZEVIB  LIBRARY. 

ing  the  fallacious  practice  of  the  lower  sort  of  profes* 
sional  disputants  to  be  met  with  in  those  days  at  Athens. 
But  the  dialogue  "Euthydcmus"  seems  to  have  sug- 
gested to  the  scientific  mind  of  Aristotle  the  idea  of 
classifying  all  the  fallacies  that  had  been  or  could  be 
employed  in  argument,  and  the  "Sophistical  Confuta- 
tions" is  the  result.  To  the  value  of  this  book  it  makes 
no  difference  how  far  the  quibbles  and  deceptive  reason- 
ings adduced  had  been  actually  used  by  certain  definite 
individuals  for  mercenary  purposes,  or  whether,  histori- 
cally speaking,  the  professional  "Sophists"  of  Greece 
were  as  bad  as  Plato  had  represented  them.  Putting 
the  "  Sophists"  of  Greece  quite  out  of  consideration, 
fallacy,  whether  voluntery  or  involuntary,  will  still 
remain,  and  is  still  always  incident  to  human  reasoning. 
And  this  it  is  which  Aristotle  undertakes  to  classif}^  It 
might  be  thought  that  errors  in  reasoning  were  infinite 
in  number,  and  incapable  of  being  reduced  to  definite 
species;  but  this  is  not  the  case,  because  every  unsound 
reasoning  is  the  counterfeit  of  some  sound  reasoning,  and 
only  gains  credence  as  such.  But  the  forms  of  sound 
reasoning  are  strictly  limited  in  number,  and  therefore 
the  forms  of  fallacy  must  be  limited  also.  Ambiguity 
in  language  is,  of  course,  one  main  source  of  fallacy; 
and  fallacy  arises  whenever  either  the  major,  the  minor, 
or  the  middle  term  of  a  syllogism  is  used  with  a  double 
meaning.  It  will  be  seen  above  that  the  quibblers  in 
"Euthydemus"  employ  the  terms  "wise,"  "learn,"  and 
"know"  in  double  senses  so  as  to  cause  confusion. 

Aristotle's  account  of  the  fallacies  attaching  to  syl- 
logistic or  deductive  reasoning  is  complete  and  exhaust- 
ive, and  has  been  the  source  of  all  that  has  subsequently 
been  writ  en  on  the  subject.  The  fallacies  of  ajnphibo- 
lia,  accidens,  a  dicta  secundum  quid  ad  dictum  simplicitcr, 


ARISTOTLFJ.  67 

ignoraUo  elenchi,  petitio  principii,  consequens,  non  causa 
pro  causa,  and  plures  interrogationes  have  become  the 
property  of  modern  times,  with  names  Latiuized  from 
those  by  which  Aristotle  first  distinguished  them;  and 
in  Whately's  and  other  compendiums,  they  may  be 
found  duly  explained.  It  is  true  that  Aristotle  does  not 
investigate  the  sources  of  error  attaching  to  the  induc- 
tive process;  the  "idols  of  the  tribe"  and  "of  the  den" 
he  left  for  Bacon  to  denounce;  and  the  fallacies  of  "  in- 
spection," colligation  and  the  rest  to  be  supplied  by 
Whewell  and  Mill.  But  with  regard  to  this,  it  must 
be  observed  that  he  treats  of  the  doctrine  of  Fallacies 
as  supplementarj^  not  to  the  Logic  of  Science,  but  to 
Dialectic.  All  through  the  "Sophistical  Confutations" 
we  have  a  background  of  Hellenic  disputation, — the 
questioner  and  the  answerer  are  hotly  engaged,  and  the 
bystanders  keenly  interested, — Aristotle  in  analyzing 
fallacy  is  primarily  contributing  artistic  rules  for  the  con- 
duct of  the  game.  The  local  and  temporary  object  has 
passed  away,  and  much  of  the  original  importance  of 
the  book  has  accordingly  been  lost;  but  the  distinctions 
which  were  here  for  the  first  time  drawn  out  have  passed 
over  into  Logic,  and  have  doubtless  contributed  some- 
what to  clear  up  the  thought  and  language  cf  Europe. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Aristotle's  "rhetoric"  and  "art  of  poetry." 

We  have  seen  how  Aristotle,  wdien  a  young  man, 
during  his  first  residence  at  Athens,  opened  a  school  of 
Rhetoric,  in  rivalry  to  the  veteran  Isocrates.  During 
his  second  residence,  he  presided  over  a  school,  not  of 
Rhetoric  alone,  but  of  Philosophy  and   of  all  kuowK 


68  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

edge.  Yet  it  is  said  that  in  the  Peripatetic  school 
"Rhetoric  was  both  scientifically  and  assiduously 
taught."*  Rhetoric  had  now,  however,  become  for 
Aristotle  merely  one  in  tliat  wide  range  of  sciences,  each 
of  which  he  had  set  himself,  as  far  as  possible,  to  bring 
to  perfection.  He  turned  to  it,  in  due  course,  from  his 
achievements  in  Logic,  and  produced  his  great  treatise 
on  this  subject.  Goethe  said  of  his  "Faust "  that  "  he 
had  carried  it  for  twenty  years  in  his  head,  till  it  had 
become  pure  gold."  The  first  part  of  the  "Rhetoric" 
of  Ailstotle  bears  marks  of  having  gone  through  a 
similar  process.  The  outlines  of  its  arrangement  are 
characterized  by  luminous  simplicity,  the  result  of  long 
analytic  reflection;  the  scientific  exposition  is  made  in 
a  style  which  is,  for  Aristotle,  remarkably  easy  and 
flowing;  and  each  part  of  the  subject  is  adorned  with  a 
wealth  of  illustration  which  indicates  the  accumulation 
of  a  lifetime. 

Several  treatises  on  Rhetoric  had  appeared  in  Greece 
before  Aristotle  sat  down  to  write  about  it.  Only  one 
of  these,  but  pcrliaps  the  best  of  them,  has  come  down 
to  us.  Curiously  enough  it  has  been  preserved  among 
the  works  of  Aristotle,  as  if  it  had  been  written  by  him, 
and  it  goes  by  the  name  of  the  "  Rhetoric  addressed  to 
Alexander,"  having  a  spurious  dedication  to  Alexander 
the  Great  tacked  on  to  it.  It  is  believed  by  scholars  to 
be  the  work  of  Anaximenes  of  Lampsacus,  an  eminent 
historian  and  rhetorician  contemporary  witli  Aristotle. 
It  is  entirely  practical  in  its  aim,  but  it  bears  traces 
of  the  sophistical  leaven,  and  deals  overmuch  in  those 
tricks    of    argument  and  disputation  which    got  tlic 


*  Professor  Jebb's  "  Attic  Orators,"  ii.  431.    See  Diog  Laert., 
V.  i.  8, 


ARISTOTLE.  69 

Sophists  their  bad  name.  The  other  lost  systems  of 
Rhetoric  by  Corax,  Tisias,  Antiphon,  Gorgias,  Thrasy- 
machus,  and  others,  appear  to  have  been  all  strictly 
practical.  Aristotle  complains*  that  they  confined 
themselves  too  much  to  treating  of  forensic  oratory, 
and  to  expounding  the  methods  best  adapted  for  work- 
ing on  the  feelings  of  a  jury.  His  own  aim  is  broader 
and  more  philosophical:  while  he  defines  Rhetoric  as 
"the  art  of  seeing  what  elements  of  persuasion  attach 
to  any  subject,"  he  traces  out  these  "elements  of  per- 
suasion" to  their  root  in  the  principles  of  human  nature. 
The  "sources  of  persuasion"  Aristotle  reduces  to 
three  heads:  first,  the  personal  character  which  the 
orator  is  able  to  exhibit  or  assume;  second,  the  mood 
into  which  he  is  able  to  bring  his  hearers;  third,  the 
arguments  or  apparent  arguments  which  he  can  adduce. 
That  this  is  a  correct  division,  W'e  can  see  in  a  moment 
by  applying  it  to  any  great  piece  of  oratory  in  ancient 
or  modern  times.  For  instance,  take  the  speech  of 
Antony  over  the  body  of  Julius  Caesar,  as  imagined  by 
Shakespeare, — here  the  orator's  first  object  evidently  is 
to  inspire  belief  in  himself  as  "a  plain,  blunt  man," 
with  no  ulterior  purposes,  merely  devoted  to  his  friend, 
bewildered  by  the  death  of  that  friend,  unable  tc  un- 
derstand how  confessedly  "honorable"  men  should 
have  brought  it  about.  Accordingl}--,  in  the  first  pause 
of  the  speech  the  citizens  say  to  each  other: 

"  2d  at.  Poor  soul  1  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with  weeping. 
3d  at.  There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome  than  Antony." 

*  There  was  another  system  of  Rhetoric,  which,  perhaps, 
should  not  be  included  in  this  number— namely,  the  "Rhetoric 
of  Theodectes  "  which  Aristotle  refers  to  in  his  third  book  (III. 
ix.  10),  as  containing  &  classification  of  prose  periods.  There  was 
a  tradition  that  Aristotle  contributed  an  introduction  to  the 
"  Rhetoric  of  Theodectes." 


70  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

The  second  object  is  to  produce  in  the  hearers  a  frame  ol 
mind  favorable  to  the  designs  of  the  orator,  who  accord- 
ingly awakens  in  Ihem  the. passions  of  gratitude  and  love 
towards  the  memory  of  Csesar  by  the  recital  of  his  good 
deeds,  then  leads  them  on  to  pity  and  indignation  at  the 
thought  of  the  injustice  done  to  him,  and  finally  rouses 
them  to  horror  and  rage  by  the  actual  sight  of  hi^ 
wounded  corpse.  Besides  this  assumption  of  a  par- 
ticular character,  and  these  appeals  to  the  passions, 
there  are  intellectual  arguments  running  through  the 
speech,  to  the  effect  that  Caesar  was  unjustly  accused  of 
ambilion,  and  unjustly  put  to  death.  And  the  practical 
conclusion  is  urged  on  the  hearers  by  all  these  various 
means — that  they  should  rise  in  revolt  and  avenge  the 
death  of  Caesar  upon  his  murderers. 

This  imaginary  speech  belongs,  of  course,  to  the  class 
of  deliberative  oratory,  the  object  of  which  is  to  recom- 
mend some  course  of  action.  This  kind,  says  Aristotle, 
deals  with  the  furure;  while  judicial  oratory,  in  crim- 
inal or  civil  cases,  endeavors  to  give  a  certain  com- 
plexion to  the  transactions  of  the  past.  And  there  is 
a  third  kind,  the  oratory  of  display,  which,  in  proposing 
toasts  and  the  like,  deals  chiefly  in  descriptions  of  the 
present.  In  each  of  the  three  kinds  of  oratory,  the  three 
* '  sources  of  persuasion"  above  noted,  must  be  employed. 
But  in  order  to  exhibit  the  features  of  a  particular  char- 
acter the  orator  must  know  the  moral  nature  of  man 
in  its  various  phases;  and,  in  order  to  work  upon  the 
feelings,  he  must  know,  so  to  speak,  the  inner  anatomy 
of  the  feelings,  A  knowledge  of  human  nature  is,  of 
course,  essential  for  producing  persuasion  in  the  minds 
of  men,  and  Aristotle  thus  says  that  Rhetoric  is  a  com. 
pound  of  Logic  and  Moral  Philosoph3\  In  this  trea- 
tise he  sur'")lies  a  rich  fund  of  psychological  remarks  on 


ARISTOTLE.  71 

the  various  passions  and  characteristics  of  men.  In  the 
condensed  linowledge  of  the  world  which  it  displays  tlie 
"  Rhetoric"  might  be  compared  with  Bacon's  "  Essays." 
It  might  be  compared  also  with  them  in  this  respect — 
that  a  bad  and  Machiavellian  use  might  certainly  be 
made  of  some  of  the  suggestions  wiiich  it  contains, 
though  Aristotle  professes  to  give  them  solely  to  be 
used  in  the  cause  of  truth  and  justice. 

With  regard  to  tlie  third  "source  of  persuasion" — 
the  arguments  used  by  an  orator  must  not  be  scientific 
demonstrations,  nor  even  dialectical  syllogisms,  but 
rhetorical  arguments,  such  as  the  conditions  and  cir- 
cumstances of  oratory  will  admit.  For  the  orator  is  not 
like  the  scientific  demonstrator  before  his  pupils,  nor 
is  he  like  the  dialectician  with  his  respondent,  who  will 
grant  him  the  premises  of  his  argument.  The  orator 
has  to  address  a  crowd  of  listeners,  with  whom  as  3^et  he 
is  not  in  relation;  he  has  to  catch,  without  fatiguing, 
their  attention,  and  to  suggest  conclusions  without 
going  through  every  step  of  the  inference.  All  reason- 
ing, however,  must  be  either  inductive  or  deductive, 
and  the  arguments  of  Rhetoric  must  each  belong  to  one 
of  these  two  forms.  Aristotle,  adapting  special  names 
for  the  purpose,  says  that  the  enthymeme  of  Rhetoric 
answers  to  the  syllogism  of  Logic,  and  that  the  example 
of  Rhetoric  answers  to  the  induction  of  Logic. 

The  word  "enthymeme"  seems  to  mean  etymologi- 
cally  "a  putting  into  one's  mind,"  or  "a  suggestion." 
It  is  a  rhetorical  syllogism  with  premises  constructed 
out  of  "likelihoods,"  or  "  signs."  Some  critics  consider 
that  it  was  essential  to  the  "  enthymeme"  to  have  one  of 
its  premises  suppressed;  but  Aristotle  only  says  ("Rliet." 
I.  ii.  13)  that  this  was  frequently  the  case.  The  real 
cliaracteristic  of  the  "  enthj^meme"  was  its  suggestive, 


73  THE  ELZEVm  LIBRARY, 

but  non-conclusive,  character;  for  the  premises,  even 
if  expressed  in  full,  would  not  be  sufficient  to  enforce 
the  conclusion  which  is  pointed  at.  The  "  euthymeme" 
argues  either  from  a  "likelihood,"  that  is — a  cause 
which  might  produce  a  given  effect,  though  it  is  not 
certain  to  do  so;  or  else  from  a  "sign,"  that  is — an 
effect  which  might  have  been  produced  by  a  given 
cause,  though  it  might  also  have  been  produced  by 
flomething  else.  To  prove  that  A  murdered  B,  you 
may  argue  from  the  "  likelihood  "  that  he  would  do  so, 
because  he  was  known  tc  have  been  at  feud  with  him; 
or  from  the  "sign"  that  A  had  blood  upon  him.  Let 
us  observe  some  of  the  "  enthyrriemes"  in  the  speech  of 
Antony: 

(1.)  "  He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill: 
Did  this  in  Csesar  seem  ambitious? 

(2.)     When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Ceesar  hath  wept; 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff. 

(3.)     You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.    Was  this  ambition?" 

These  three  arguments  are  based  on  "signs;"  acts  ot 
Caesar  are  adduced  as  showing  in  him  a  disinterested- 
ness, a  tenderness  of  heart,  and  a  modesty  which  would 
be  incompatible  with  selfish  ambition.  But  the  reason- 
ing is  not  conclusive,  since  the  acts  mentioned  might 
have  flowed  from  other  sources  than  good  qualities  of 
the  heart — they  might  have  been  done  "  with  a  motive." 
However,  there  is  fully  as  much  cogency  here  as  can 
ordinarily  be  expected  to  be  found  in  the  deductions  of 
an  orator.  The  only  inductive  reasoning  of  which  ora- 
tory is  capable  is  the  "  example,"  or  historical  instance. 
Instead  of  gathering  sufficient  instances  to  establish  a 
law,  which  would  be  the  scientific  method,  the  orator 


ARISTOTLE.  73 

quotes  one  instance  pointing  in  the  direction  of  a  law. 
Thus  "  Dionysius,  in  asliing  to  be  allowed  a  body-guard, 
aims  at  establishing  a  tyi'anny; — did  not  Pisistratus 
do  just  the  same?"  The  "example"  is,  of  course,  an 
arguing  by  analogy,  and  the  question  must  always  be 
whether  the  cases  compared  with  each  other  are  really 
analogous,  or  whether  there  is  any  essential  difference 
in  the  circumstances.  Aristotle  says  that  some  orators 
deal  more  in  examples,  others  more  in  enthymemes. 
He  is  inclined  to  think  that  in  obtaining  applause  the 
enthymemes  are  the  more  successful. 

After  thus  setting  forth  the  general  framework  of 
oratory,  Aristotle  proceeds  to  make  suggestions  with 
regard  to  the  matter  of  speeches.  This  will  naturally 
be  different  in  kind  for  the  three  different  kinds  of 
oratory.  Him  who  is  to  practice  deliberative  oratory, 
Aristotle  advises  to  study  and  make  himself  well  ac- 
quainted with  five  points  relative  to  the  State  to  which 
he  belongs:  its  finance;  its  foreign  relations;  the  state 
of  its  defenses;  its  imports  and  exports;  and  its  system 
of  law.*  In  reference  to  the  last  of  these,  Aristotle 
recommends  the  comparative  study  of  political  consti- 
tutions, and  for  that  end  that  the  accounts  of  travelers 
should  be  read.  He  adds  that  for  political  debate  in 
general  a  knowledge  of  the  works  of  historians  is  a 
valuable  preparation. 

These,  however,  are  mere  hints,  directing  the  student 
to  funds  of  information  which  lie  outside  of  the  art  of 
Rhetoric.  Aristotle  proceeds  to  furnish  the  orator  with 
definitions  and  theories  which  he  considered  (at  all 
events  when  he  was  writing  this  treatise)  to  belong  to 


*  The  same  points  are  specified  in  the  advice  given  by  Socrates 
to  a  young  politician— Xenophon  "Memorab."  iii.  6. 


74  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBIIAIIY. 

Rhetoric  itself,  though  it  would  have  perhaps  been  a 
better  classification  of  science  if  he  had  merely  indi- 
cated that  a  knowledge  of  these  matters  was  necessary, 
and  had  referred  the  student  to  Moral  Philosophy  for  full 
particulars  with  regard  to  them.  The  result  is  that  he 
gives  a  brilliant  summary  by  anticipation  of  a  consid- 
erable portion  of  his  "Ethics."  As  in  the  "  Topics"  he 
thought  it  necessary  to  make  long  lists  of  commonplaces 
for  the  use  of  the  dialectician,  so  here  he  gives  lists  of 
heads  to  be  borne  in  mind  by  the  deliberative  orator. 
It  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  follow  Aristotle  in  anticipat- 
ing his  theory  of  morals.  It  need  only  be  mentioned 
that,  after  premising  that  the  idea  of  obtaining  personal 
good,  or  happiness,  is  what  actuates  men  in  deliberation, 
he  proceeds  to  give  what  may  be  called  a  provisional 
theory  of  happiness  and  its  component  parts;  he  then 
specifies  thirty  different  grounds  on  which  a  thing 
might  be  recommended  as  good,  and  forty  other  grounds 
upon  which  a  thing  might  be  shown  to  be  compara- 
tively good,  or  better  than  sometliing  else.  He  winds 
up  his  instructions  for  the  deliberate  orator  with  brief 
remarks  on  the  scope  and  character  of  different  forms  of 
government,  which  are  afterwards  fully  expanded  in  the 
"Politics." 

Ihe  oratory  of  display  deals  especially  with  praise 
and  eulogy,  as  we  know  from  the  specimens  of  it  most 
familiar  to  us — the  funeral  oration,  and  the  post- 
prandial speech.  The  orator  in  this  kind  must  have 
betore  him  a  c  lear  idea  of  what  constitutes  virtue,  and 
of  'W'hat  is,  or  is  considered,  most  honorable  among 
men.  And  for  his  benefit  Aristotle  inserts  a  chapter  on 
these  subjects,  though  they  more  properly  belong  to 
mv>ral  science.  He  adds,  however,  some  hints  on  the 
rhcjlorical  device  of  amplification  in  laudatory,  or  other. 


ARISTOTLE.  75 

statements.  He  appends  the  remark  that  a  knowledge 
of  the  theory  of  virtue  is  necessary  for  the  deliberative 
orator  also,  for  the  purposes  of  exhortation  and  ad- 
vice. He  thus  would  evidently  class  hortative  addresses, 
like  the  modern  sermon,  under  the  head  of  deliberative 
orator}^ 

For  the  use  of  the  forensic  orator,  who  has  to  argue 
in  accusation  or  defense,  the  following  equipment  of 
knowledge  is  provided  by  Aristotle:  1st,  A  brief  sum- 
mary of  the  motives  of  human  action ;  2d,  An  analytical 
account  of  pleasure  and  things  pleasurable — for  these 
figure  most  prominently  among  human  motives;  3d,  An 
analysis  of  the  moods  of  mind  in  which  men  commit 
injustice;  4th,  A  distinction  between  different  kinds 
of  law  and  right;  5th,  Remarks  on  dsgrees  of  guilt; 
and,  6th,  Hints  for  dealing  with  statutes,  documents, 
and  the  evidence  of  witnesses  whether  these  be  for  or 
against  the  orator.  Under  the  4th  head,  Aristotle  has 
some  fine  remarks  on  the  universal  law  of  nature,  and 
on  equity.*    As  a  specimen  the  latter  may  be  quoted: 

"  It  is  equity  to  pardon  human  feelings,  and  to  look 
to  the  lawgiver,  and  not  to  the  law;  to  the  spirit,  and 
not  to  the  letter;  to  the  intention,  and  not  to  tlie 
action;  to  the  whole,  and  not  to  the  part;  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  actor  in  the  long-run,  and  not  in  the  pres- 
ent moment; — to  remember  good  rather  than  evil,  and 
good  that  one  has  received  ratlier  than  good  that  one 
has  done;  to  bear  being  injured;  to  wish  to  settle  a 
matter  bywords  rather  than  by  deeds;  lastly,  to  pre- 
fer arbitration  to  judgment,  for  the  arbitrator  sees  what 
is  equitable,  but  the  judge  only  the  law,  and  for  this 

*  Epieikeia—t'iia.t  quality  which  Mr  Matthew  Arnold  defines 
as  "  a  sweet  reasonableness." 


7e  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRABT. 

an  arbitrator  was  first  appointed,  in  order  that  equity 
might  flourish." 

So  much  for  the  materials  of  oratory.  In  making 
use  of  them  it  will  be  further  necessary  for  the  orator 
to  be  acquainted  with  the  leading  passions  and  dis- 
positions of  men,  in  order  that  he  may  successfully 
appeal  to  the  feelings  of  his  hearers.  Accordingly, 
the  second  book  of  the  "Rhetoric"  supplies  him  with 
a  treatise  on  the  characteristics  of  Anger,  Placability, 
Friendliness,  Hatred,  Fear,  Shame,  Gratitude,  Pity,  In- 
dignation, Envy,  and  Emulation;  of  the  three  stages  of 
human  life — Youth,  Maturity,  and  Old  Age;  and  of  the 
three  social  conditions — Rank,  Wealth,  and  Power.  In 
these  disquisitions  there  is,  probably,  embodied  much 
of  the  collective  wisdom  of  Greece ;  but  there  is,  doubt- 
less, also  a  great  deal  of  original  analysis,  worked  out 
by  Aristotle  himself  once  for  all,  and  which  has  re- 
mained valid  ever  since.  Such,  for  instance,  are 
his  six  points  of  contrast  between  Anger  and  Hatred 
("Rhet."II.  iv.  30): 

1st,  Anger  rises  out  of  something  personal  to  our- 
selves; Hatred  is  independent  of  this.  We  may  hate  a 
man  merely  because  we  conceive  him  to  be  of  a  cer- 
tain description.  2d,  Anger  is  invariably  against  in- 
dividuals; Hatred  may  embrace  whole  classes.  3d, 
Anger  is  to  be  remedied  by  time;  Hatred  is  incurable. 
4th,  Anger  wishes  to  inflict  pain,  so  that  its  operation 
may  be  felt  and  acknowledged,  and  thus  satisfaction 
obtained;  Hatred  wishes  nothing  of  the  kind — it 
merely  wishes  that  a  mischief  may  be  done,  without 
caring  that  the  source  of  it  be  known.  5th,  Anger  is 
a  painful  feeling;  but  Hatred  not.  6th,  Anger,  when 
a  certain  amount  of  pain  has  been  inflicted  upon  its 


ARISTOTLE.  77 

object,  may  easily  turn  into  pity;  Platred,  under  all 
circumstances,  is  incapable  of  this — it  desires  notliing 
less  than  the  absolute  destruction  and  non-existence  of 
its  object.'*' 

With  all  his  subtlety  and  knowledge  of  the  worl  d 
Aristotle  does  not  exhibit  any  of  the  cynicism  of 
Hobbes  or  Rochefoucauld.  He  is  far  from  denying  the 
existence  of  disinterested  and  noble  feelings.  Thus, 
for  instance,  he  defines  friendly  feeling  to  consist  in 
"the  wishing  a  person  what  we  think  good,  for  his 
sake  and  not  for  our  own,  and  as  far  as  is  in  our  power, 
the  exerting  ourselves  to  procure  it."  Pity  he  defines 
to  be  "a  sort  of  pain  occasioned  by  the  appearance  of  a 
hurtful  or  destructive  ill  (such  as  one's  self  or  one's  con- 
nections might  possibly  have  to  endure)  happening 
to  one  who  does  not  deserve  it."  Here  fellow-feeling 
is  mentioned  as  necessary  for  realizing  the  ills  w^hich 
excite  our  pity,  but  that  by  no  means  reduces  pity  to 
a  mere  selfish  apprehension  on  our  own  account. 
"  The  essence  of  pity,"  says  Aristotle  elsewhere  ("Poet." 
XXV.),  "is  that  it  is  caused  by  the  sight  of  undeserved 
calamity."  Thus  it  proceeds  from  a  sense  of  moral 
justice  arising  in  the  heart.  Aristotle  does  not  regard 
men  as  the  natural  enemies  of  each  other;  on  the 
contrary,  he  thinks  benevolent  feelings  to  be  natural, 
and  to  play  a  considerable  part  in  the  organization  of 
society.     He  defines  "kindness"'*  to  be  "that  quality 

*  Charts,  a  word  which  can  hardly  be  translated,  as  it  means 
iiot  only  kindness,  grace,  or  favor,  but  also  the  reciprocal  feel- 
ing of  gratitude  for  kindness.  The  Charites  or  Graces  were 
the  Greek  pei-sonifications  of  reciprocal  feelings  of  kindness. 
Hence  the  temple  of  the  Graces  symbolized  the  mutual  services 
of  men  to  each  other,  on  which  society  depends  (see  ''  Eth."  V. 
V.7). 


78  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY, 

by  wliicli  one  does  a  service  to  him  who  needs  it,  not 
in  return  for  auj^thiug,  nor  in  order  that  one  may  get 
anything  one's  self,  but  simply  to  benefit  the  recipient." 
He  considers  human  nature  to  be  capable  of  great 
moral  elevation  in  the  persons  of  the  wise  and  good; 
at  the  same  time  he  regarded  the  majority  of  mankind 
as  poor  creatures,  though  rather  weak  than  M'icked. 
Thus  ("Rhet."  II.  v.  7),  he  says,  "  the  majority  of  men 
are  timid  and  corruptible,"  and  in  "Etli."  VII.  vii.  1, 
it  is  said  that  "  most  men  are  in  a  state  between  conti- 
nence and  incontinence,  but  rather  verging  towards  the 
worst  side," 

We  may  conclude  our  extracts  from  the  second  book 
of  the  "  Rhetoric"  with  Aristotle's  remark  ou  the  prime 
of  life,  which  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby  used  to  be  fond  of 
quoting:  "The  body,"  says  Aristotle,  "is  in  its  prime 
from  the  age  of  thirty  to  thirtj'-five,  and  the  mind 
about  the  age  of  forty-nine."  It  has  been  observed 
that  university  undergraduates  are  apt  to  consider 
these  ages  as  set  too  high,  while  senior  tutors  have 
been  known  to  complain  of  them  as  only  applicable 
to  precocious  southern  nations. 

From  what  we  have  indicated  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
first  two  books  of  the  "Rhetoric"  consist  mainly  of  ob- 
servations on  human  nature.  Towards  the  close  of 
them  Aristotle  fell  upon  the  subject  of  fallacious  "  en- 
thymemes,"  and  this  led  him  to  suspend  the  work  he 
had  in  hand,  and  to  write  that  treatise  on  "Sophistical 
Confutations,"  or  "Fallacies,"  of  which  we  have  al- 
ready given  an  account.  After  which  he  wrote  his 
"  Etliics,"  until  the  subject  of  "  Justice"  turned  up,  and 
he  then  went  on  to  discuss  the  bases  of  this  quality  in 
his  "  Politics."  The  subject  of  "  Education"  seems  to 
have  led  Aristotle  from  the  compilation  of  the  last- 


ARISTOTLE.  79 

named  treatise  to  write  liis  "Art  of  Poetry,"  whicli 
naturally  involved  the  discussion  of  rules  of  style;  and 
this,  by  an  equally  natural  transition,  suggested  the 
completion  of  the  "  Rhetoric,"  by  the  addition  of  a  third 
book  on  Style  and  Arrangement. 

This  book  has  of  course  not  quite  so  universal  an 
interest  as  the  former  ones.  The  interest  attaching  to 
it  is  necessarily  to  some  extent  antiquarian — as,  for 
instance,  when  Aristotle  details  the  five  points  on  which 
an  idiomatic  style  in  Greek  depends — viz.,  a  proper 
use  of  connective  particles;  and  of  specially  appropri- 
ate instead  of  general  words;  constructing  the  sentence 
so  as  to  avoid  ambiguity;  using  right  genders;  and 
right  numbers.  The  specification  of  the  latter  points 
(as  well  as  similar  injunctions  in  the  "Art  of  Poetry") 
show  in  how  infantile  a  condition  tlie  science  of  Gram- 
mar was  in  Aristotle's  time.  He  lays  down  here  some 
of  the  things  which  "  every  schoolboy  knows." 

The  book  is  not  only  a  good  deal  limited  to  the  in- 
struction of  Greek  readers  belonging  to  the  fourth  cen- 
tury B.C.,  but  it  also  deals  a  good  deal  in  allusions 
which  such  readers  would  perfectly  understand,  but 
which  are  obscure  for  us.  Instead  of  quoting  at  some 
length  the  beauties  of  oratory,  it  frequently  indicates 
passages  by  merely  mentioning  a  single  word  out  of 
them.  There  is  generally  speaking  an  air  of  scientific 
dryness  in  its  treatment  even  of  the  most  poetical  meta- 
phors. For  instance,  we  are  told  that  it  is  far  better  to 
call  Aurora  the  "rosy-fingered"  than  the  "purple-fin- 
gered," and  still  more  so  than  to  call  her  the  "red-fin- 
gered." But  charms  of  style  from  the  Greek  writers 
appear  in  this  book  like  moths  and  butterflies  pinned  on 
to  corks  in  the  collection  of  an  entomologist,  Aris- 
totle's fondness  for  classification  seems  carried  too  far 


80  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

here;  he  incessantly  analyzes  and  enumerates,  as  for  in- 
stance when  he  tells  us  that  there  are  four  ways  hy 
which  "  flatness"  in  a  speech  is  produced.  The  princi- 
ples laid  down  are  of  course  sound  and  sensible — as,  for 
example,  that  "  the  chief  merit  of  style  is  clearness," 
that  the  orator  must  not  use  poetical  language,  and 
that  his  sentences  must  be  rhythmical,  without  falling 
into  meter.  Aristotle  objects  to  having  a  sentence 
ended  with  a  short  syllable,  because  the  voice  cannot 
rest  on  it  so  as  to  mark  a  stop;  he  thinks  that  the  end 
of  each  sentence  should  be  marked  out  by  the  rhythm, 
so  as  not  to  need  punctuation.  He  recommends  the  use 
of  the  poson,  a  foot  consisting  of  three  short  syllables 
and  one  long  syllable  (as  anachronism),  for  the  rhythmi- 
cal finish  of  sentences.  The  point,  however,  is  not 
gone  into  with  any  exactness;  and  we  are  left  in  doubt 
as  to  the  proportion  which  accent  bore  to  "quantity"  in 
ancient  Greek  oratory.  On  the  one  hand  we  know  that 
accent  has  had  such  a  firm  hold  on  the  G-reek  language 
as  in  the  course  of  time  utterly  to  overpower  and  ehmi- 
nate  quantity.  Thus  modern  Greek  is  spoken  entirely 
according  to  accent  without  regard  to  quantity.  On 
the  other  hand  ancient  Greek  poetry  must  have  been 
read  almost  entirely  in  reference  to  the  quantity  of  the 
syllables,  without  regard  to  accent.  How  it  stood  with 
ancient  Greek  I'hythmical  prose,  is  a  question  which 
Aristotle  does  not  help  us  to  solve.  In  fact  there  is  a 
certain  matter-of-fact  bluutness,  and  a  want  of  the 
delicacy  and  humor  of  genius,  pervading  his  criticisms. 
And  it  is  remarkable  that  his  illustrations  are  more 
drawn  from  poetry  than  from  prose — apparently  more 
from  books  than  from  living  sources — and  that  he  never 
mentions  with  appreciation  the  oratory  of  Demosthe- 
nes.    Some  of  the  greatest  speeches  of  Demosthenes, 


ARISTOTLE.  81 

especially  his  Olyntliiac  orations,  had  beeu  spoken  at 
Athens  when  Aristotle  was  little  more  than  thirty  years 
of  age|  just  about  the  time  when  he  was  attempting  to 
rival  Isocrates  in  the  teaching  of  Rhetoric.  It  would 
be  extraordinary  if  these  splendid  harangues  made  no 
impression  upon  him.  But  it  must  be  observed  that  he 
does  not  pass  any  general  criticism  upon  Pericles,  or 
any  other  orator.  And  it  is  possible  also  that  a  fear  of 
ofiEending  the  Macedonian  royal  family  may  have  pre- 
vented Aristotle  from  praising  the  anti-Macedonian 
statesman,  though  he  was  the  greatest  orator  among  the 
ancients. 

After  treating  of  style,  Aristotle  briefly  discusses  ar- 
rangement. He  divides  a  speech  into  exordium,  state- 
ment, proof,  and  peroration,  and  says  something  on  the 
points  to  be  aimed  at  in  each.  He  adds  some  shrewd 
advice  on  the  use  that  may  be  made  of  putting  adroit 
questions  to  an  opponent;  and  he  mentions  with  ap- 
proval the  maxim  of  Gorgias  that  "when  your  adv^er- 
sary  is  earnest  you  should  silence  him  with  ridicule, 
and  when  he  tries  ridicule  you  should  silence  him  with 
earnestness."  He  neatly  winds  up  his  "Rhetoric" 
with  the  specimen  of  a  peroration:  "I  have  spoken — 
you  have  heard.  You  have  the  matter  before  you — 
judge  of  it." 

Aristotle's  little  treatise  called  "  Poetic,"  or  the  "Art 
of  Poetry,"  is  very  interesting,  but  it  does  not  take  the 
modern  or  romantic  view  of  Poetry.  Aristotle  does 
not  seek  to  find  here — 

"  The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream." 

He  simply  defines  poe'ry  as  one  of  the  imitative 
arts,   "such  as  dancing,  flute-playing,  painting,  etc.: 


83  THE  ELZhJVlU  LIBRARY. 

these  different  arts,  he  says,  have  each  their  own  in- 
strument of  imitation,  and  poetry  uses  words  and 
meter.  However,  not  all  metrical  composition  is 
poetry;  the  verses  of  Empedocles  are  philosophy  rather 
than  poetry — they  lack  the  quality  of  being  imitative 
— that  is  to  say,  it  is  not  their  chief  object  to  depict, 
Aristotle  attributes  the  genesis  of  poetry,  not  to  any 
divine  impulse,  but  to  those  imitative  instincts  of 
man,  which  are  exhibited  from  earliest  childhood,  and 
to  the  intellectual  pleasure  which  we  feel  in  seeing  a 
good  imitation  even  of  a  painful  subject,  and  in  recog- 
nizing that  "  this  is  that"  Poetry  then  is  imitation, 
and  accordiag  to  this  theory  the  merit  of  a  good  poem 
would  be  the  same  as  the  merit  of  a  good  photograph — 
exact  and  mechanical  resemblance.  Aristotle,  however, 
is  not  consistent  to  this  view;  he  evidently  admits  the 
idea  of  some  creativeness  in  the  poet — for  instance,  he 
says  that  some  poets  represent  men  as  better  than  they 
really  are;  and  he  applauds  the  practice  of  Zeuxis,  who, 
in  painting  his  Helen,  combined  the  beauties  out  of 
several  fair  faces.  He  seems  to  approach  the  modern 
point  of  view  when  he  says  (xvii,  2)  that  "  Poetry  is  the 
province  of  a  genius  or  amadman ;"  for  the  one  can  feign 
and  the  other  feels  stormy  passions.  But  it  must  be 
observed  that  the  word  for  "a  genius"  here,  is  merely 
"well-natured" — a  word  elsewhere  used  for  one  who 
has  a  good  moral  disposition,  and  generally  for  one  who 
has  natural  gifts.  In  fact,  the  philosophy  of  the  imagi- 
nation was  a  part  of  psychology  not  at  all  worked  out 
in  the  time  of  Aristotle;  there  was  as  yet  no  word  to 
express  what  we  mean  by  "  imagination."  When  Aris- 
totle uses  the  word  phantasia,  he  means  by  it,  not  the 
creative  faculty,  but  an  image  before  tbe  mind's  eye. 
While  the  Greeks  were  the  most  imaginative  of  peoples. 


ARISTOTLE.  83 

they  had  not  as  yet  analyzed  the  processes  of  imagi- 
nation. And  the  want  of  a  terminology  connected  with 
this  subject  is  felt  throughout  the  "  Poetic"  of  Aristo- 
tle. 

Poetry  consists  in  imitation,  mainly  of  the  actions  of 
men;  and  there  are  three  great  species  of  it — Epic 
poetry,  Tragedy  and  Comedy.  Of  these  three  kinds 
Aristotle  undertakes  to  treat;  but  the  promise  is  only 
fulfilled  with  regard  to  the  two  first;  the  treatise  breaks 
off  at  the  point  where  a  disquisition  on  Comedy  might 
have  been  expected.  Comedy,  according  to  modern 
views,  would  hardly  be  reckoned  to  be  poetry  at  all. 
Aristotle,  in  stating  what  Comedy  is,  gives  his  famous 
definition  of  the  "  ludicrous."  Tragedy,  he  says,  aims 
at  representing  men  who  are  above  the  average ;  comedy, 
men  who  are  below  it.  But  the  characters  in  comedy 
are  not  so  much  morally  bad,  as  ugly.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain pleasure  derivable  from  ugliness,  and  that  is  the 
.  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  "  The  ludicrous  is  some  fault 
or  blemish  not  suggesting  the  idea  of  pain  or  death;  as, 
for  instance,  an  ugly  twisted  face  is  ludicrous,  if  there 
is  no  idea  that  the  owner  of  it  is  in  pain."  This  saying 
has  been  the  foundation  of  all  subsequent  philosophy 
of  laughter.  Elsewhere  Aristotle  defines  the  ludicrous 
as  "harmless  incongruity."  "We  laugh  from  a  pleas- 
urable sense  of  contrast  and  surprise  when  a  thing  is 
out  of  place  but  no  serious  evil  seems  likely  to  result. 

Aristotle's  account  of  Tragedy  is  a  profound  piece  of 
aesthetic  philosophy.  By  implication  he  defends  Trag- 
edy against  Plato,  who  had  wished  to  banish  the 
drama  from  his  ideal  republic,  as  tending  to  make  men 
unmanly.  Aristotle  defines  Tragedy  as  the  "imitation 
of  some  noble  action,  great  and  complete  in  itself;  in 
melodious  diction ;  with  different  measures  to  suit  tlic 


H  TEE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

different  parts;  by  men  acting,  and  not  by  narration; 
effecting  tJirough  pity  and  fear  the  purging  of  such 
feelings."  The  latter  words  contain  the  office  and  the 
justificatioia  of  Tragedy.  Men's  minds  are  prone  to  be 
haunted  by  the  feelings  of  pity  and  fear,  and  these  are 
apt  to  degenerate  into  sentimentality.  Tragedy  offers 
noble  objects  whereon  these  feelings  may  be  exercised; 
and  by  tnat  exercise  the  feelings  not  only  receive  a 
right  diroetion,  but  also  are  relieved,  being  removed,  so 
to  speak,  i^or  the  time  from  the  system.  After  much 
discussion  *  on  the  subject  in  Germany,  there  is  now  no 
doubt  that  in  using  the  term  "  purging"  in  the  above 
passage  Aristotle  was  employing  a  medical  metaphor. 
This  is  borne  out  by  two  passages  of  the  ' '  Politics" 
(II.  vii.  11;  VIII.  vii.  5),  which  both  refer  in  similar 
terms  to  the  relief  of  the  passions  procured  by  indulg- 
ing them.  He  promised  a  fuller  explanation  of  his 
theory  on  this  subject,  but  unfortunately  has  never 
given  it.  However,  we  are  perhaps  safe  in  under- 
standing that,  while  Plato  objected  to  Tragedy  as  tend- 
ing to  make  men  soft  by  the  excitement  of  their  sym- 
pathetic feelings,  Aristotle  said  "No — those  feelings 
will  be  purged  and  carried  off  from  the  system  by  the 
operation  of  Tragedy." 

As  to  the  means  by  which  Tragedy  is  to  excite  pity 
and  terror,  Aristotle  says  that  it  will  not  do  to  exhibit  a 
purely  good  man  falling  into  adversity — that  would 
be  rather  horrible  than  tragic;  nor,  in  the  other ^haud, 
would  the  representation  of  a  villain  receiving  the  ret- 
ribution due  to  his  crimes  be  a  tragical  story,  however 
moral  it  might  be.     We  require  the  element  of  un- 


*  See  "  Aristotle  iiber  Kunst,  besonders  iiber  Tragodie,"  von 
Pr,  Keinkens)  Vienna,  1870),  p.  70-167. 


ARISTOTLE.  80 

deserved  calamitj'-;  and  yet  there  must  be  some  justice, 
too,  in  the  course  of  events,  so  that  while  we  feel  sor- 
row for  what  occurs,  we  shall  feel  also  that  things  could 
not  have  been  otlicrwise.  The  tale  of  (Edipus  is  often 
mentioned  by  Aristotle  as  a  perfect  subject  for  Trag- 
edy. We  may  add  that  Mr.  Tennyson's  "Harold" 
exhibits  in  this  respect  the  same  qualities;  we  see  in  ita 
noble  character  borne  along  to  an  undeserved  and  ca- 
lamitous doom;  and  yet  there  is  a  sense  that  this  is, 
partly  at  all  events,  the  result  of  his  own  doing.  Aris- 
totle is  not  in  favor  of  a  tragedy  ending  happily.  He 
says  that  poets  sometimes  malie  happy  endings  out  of 
concession  to  the  weakness  of  the  spectators,  but  that 
this  is  quite  a  mistake,  and  that  such  endings  are  more 
suitable  to  comedy.  He  praises  Euripides  as  tlie  "  most 
tragic  of  the  poets,"  on  account  of  the  doleful  termina- 
tions of  his  plays,  "  though  in  other  respects  he  did  not 
manage  well." 

Much  stress  has  been  laid,  especially  by  the  French, 
on  "the  unities"  of  the  drama,  as  supposed  to  be 
prescribed  by  Aristotle's  "Poetic."  But  in  reality  he 
attaches  no  importance  to  the  external  unities  of  time 
and  place.  In  enumerating  the  differences  between 
tragedy  and  epic  poetry,  he  says  (v.  8)  that  "the  one 
generally  tries  to  limit  its  action  to  a  period  of  twenty- 
four  hours,  or  not  much  to  exceed  that,  while  the  other 
is  unlimited  in  point  of  time."  But  he  does  not  lay 
this  down  as  a  law  for  Tragedy.  The  peculiarity  of  the 
Greek  drama,  in  which  a  chorus  remained  constantly 
present  and  the  curtain  never  fell,  almost  necessitated 
"the  unities;"  but  Aristotle  only  concerns  himself  with 
internal  unity,  which  he  says  (viii.  4)  that  Tragedy  must 
have,  in  common  with  every  other  work  of  art,  and 
which  consists  in  making  every  part  bear  an  organic  re- 


166  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

lation  to  the  whole,  so  that  no  part  could  be  altered  or 
omitted  without  the  whole  suffering.  This  principle, 
far  more  valuable  than  that  of  "the  unities,"  would 
seem  to  need  re-assertion,  for  we  might  almost  say  that 
it  is  habitually  violated  by  writers  of  fiction  in  th»  pres- 
ent day — at  all  events  by  all  but  the  very  few  who  may 
be  placed  in  the  first  class. 

The  "  Poetic"  gives  many  notices  of  the  rise  and  prog- 
ress of  the  Greek  drama,  and  the  modifications  which 
tragedy  and  comedy  went  through,  and  much  informa- 
tion as  to  the  technical  divisions  of  a  play,  and  other 
such  matters;  but  all  these  points  have  become  the 
property  of  manuals  of  "  Greek  Antiquities."  Aristotle 
notes  a  decadence  of  the  drama  in  his  own  day:  he  com- 
plains of  authors  spoiling  their  plays  by  introducing 
episodes  merely  to  suit  particular  actors:  he  considers 
that  spectacle  is  carried  too  far,  and  that  it  is  a  mistake 
to  aim  at  producing  tragical  effect  by  elaborate  and  ex- 
pensive scenery  and  apparatus:  he  also  thinks  that  act- 
ing is  overdone.  Aristotle  shows  an  extensive  acquaint- 
ance with  dramatic  literature;  and,  by  mentioning  it, 
he  makes  us  regret  the  loss  of  "  The  Flower,"  a  play  by 
Agathon,  which  seems  to  have  been  entirely  original, 
and  not  based  on  any  traditional  story. 

The  remarks  here  made  on  Epic  poetry  are  compara- 
tively brief.  Aristotle  considers  it  of  less  importance 
than  Tragedy.  He  says  that  every  merit  which  the  Epic 
possesses  is  to  be  found  in  Tragedy.  Like  Tragedy,  the 
Epic  must  possess  unity  of  plot,  but  it  may  indulge  to 
a  greater  extent  in  episodes.  Aristotle  never  loses  an 
opportunity  of  praising  Homer,  whom  he  considers  to 
be  the  author,  not  only  of  the  "  Iliad"  and  "  Odyssey," 
but  also  of  a  comic  poem  called  "Margitcs."  He  espe- 
cially commends  the  art  of  Homer  in  making  the  action 


ABISTOTLFl  87 

of  the  "Iliad"  and  "Odyssey"  respectively  circle  round 
definite  central  events.  AlUiongli  it  is  a  narrative,  Epic 
poetry  will  always  be  distinct  from  history:  the  one  has 
an  artistic  unity  which  is  wanting  to  the  other;  the  one 
describes  what  might  have  been,  the  other  what  has 
been;  the  one  deals  in  universal,  the  other  in  particular, 
truth.  The  result  of  this  whole  comparison  is,  that 
"Poetry  is  more  philosophical  and  more  earnest  than 
History. " 

The  "Poetic"  branches  off,  towards  its  close,  into  an 
immature  disquisition  on  style,  which  led  Aristotle  to 
go  back  to  his  "Rhetoric,"  and  write  the  third  book 
tliereof.  Here  he  even  lays  down  some  of  the  elements 
of  grammar,  and  enumerates  the  parts  of  speech.  He 
adds  a  curious  chapter  (xxv.)  on  Criticisms,  and  how  to 
answer  them,  in  which  the  spirit  of  the  dialectician  is 
very  apparent.  All  this  show^s  that  Aristotle  was  only 
gradually  feeling  his  way  to  the  division  of  sciences. 
He  wrote,  as  it  were,  under  pressure,  on  one  great  sul>- 
ject  after  another,  and  the  light  only  dawned  on  him  as 
he  went  along.  Could  he  have  rewritten  his  works, 
probably  all  would  have  been  brought  into  lucid  order. 
But  it  is  clear  that  the  little  treatise  called  "Poetic"  not 
only  was  never  rewritten,  but  was  never  finished  as  its 
author  intended  it  to  be. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Aristotle's  "ethics.'* 

Aristotle*s  treatise  on  Morals  has  come  down  to  us 
entitled  "  Nicomachean  Ethics."  This  label  was  proba- 
bly afiixed  to  the  work  on  account  of  Nicomachus,  the 
son  of  Aristotle,  having  had  some  subordinate  counec- 


88  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

tion  witli  it,  either  as  scribe  or  editor;  and  in  order  to 
distinguisli  it  in  the  Peripatetic  library  from  the  "Eu- 
demiaii  Ethics,"  which  is  a  sort  of  paraphrase  of  Aristo- 
tle's treatise  by  his  disciple  Eudemus — and  from  tlie 
"  Great  Ethics,  "which  is  a  restatement  of  the  same  mat- 
ter by  some  later  Peripatetic  hand.  Among  the  Works 
of  Aristotle  there  is  also  included  a  little  tract  "  On  \'ir- 
tues  and  Vices."  This  is  a  mere  paper,  such  as  the 
Peripatetic  school  used  to  produce,  noting  characteris- 
tics of  gome  of  the  Aristotelian  good  qualities  and  their 
opposites,  and  with  no  pretensions  to  be  considered 
genuine. 

After  going  through,  under  the  guidance  of  Aristotle, 
the  theory  of  the  reasonings  by  which  knowledge  is 
obtained,  and  the  theoiy  of  the  statement  by  which 
knowledge  may  be  best  set  forth,  we  now  enter,  in 
the  '*  Nicomachean  Ethics,"  upon  some  of  the  matter  of 
knowledge — namely,  Aristotle's  theory  of  human  life. 
But  what  strikes  us  on  reading  the  early  chapters  of 
this  treatise  is  that,  when  he  began  to  write  it,  Aristotle 
Lad  no  clear  conception  of  the  existence  of  Moral  Phi- 
losophy as  a  separate  science.  The  question  which  he 
proposes  is,  What  is  the  end,  or  supreme  good,  aimed 
at  by  human  action"?  He  adds  that  the  science  which  . 
will  have  to  settle  this  will  be  a  branch  of  Politics — that 
is,  of  State-philosophy— for  the  chief  good  of  the  State 
and  of  the  individual  are  identical,  only  the  one  is  on  a 
grander  scale  than  the  other.  In  this  exordium  we 
may  notice  two  especially  Greek  features:  first,  the 
cardinal  question  proposed  for  the  philosophj'-  of  human 
life  is  not.  What  is  tiie  duty  of  man?  but.  What  is  the 
chief  good  for  man?  Secondly,  the  individual  is  so  far 
subordinated  to  and  identified  with  the  State,  tliat  the 
summum  bomim  for  the    latter  includes  that  of  the 


ARISTOTLE  8» 

former.  la  Aristotle's  "  Politics"  (YII.  iii.  8),  the  chief 
good  for  a  State  is  portrayed  as  consisting  iu  the  de- 
velopment and  play  of  speculative  thought,  all  fit  con- 
ditions thereto  having  been  provided.  The  idea  is — a 
Greek  city,  with  a  slave  jwpulation  doing  the  hare? 
work,  wherein  the  citizens  for  the  most  part  can  live  a!> 
gentlemen,  and  a  large  proportion  of  them  may  devote 
their  lives  to  intellectual  pursuits.  Aristotle  thought 
that  the  highest  aim  for  a  State  was  to  turn  out  philos- 
ophers, and  that  the  highest  aim  for  an  individual  was 
to  he  a  philosopher.  Thus  there  is  a  seeming  identity 
of  aims;  yet  still  in  writing  his  "  Ethics"  Aristotle  con- 
fines himself  to  inquiring  after  "  the  good  "  for  the  indi- 
vidual. As  he  goes  on,  it  dawns  upon  him  more  and 
more  (see  "  Eth."  v.  5-11),  that  "  the  man"  has  an  in- 
dependent status  distinct  from  that  of  "the  citizen,'* 
and  that  in  his  capacity  of  human  being  each  citizen 
has  needs,  aims,  and  virtues  of  his  own,  irrespective 
of  the  State.  Thus  by  composing  this  work  he  estab- 
lished the  separation  of  Ethics  from  Politics — these 
two  sciences  having  been  previously  mixed  up  together 
by  Socrates  and  Plato,  who  were  the  great  founders  of 
both. 

What  constitutes  the  chief  good  for  an  individual,  or 
in  other  words,  happiness?  Aristotle  is  somewhat  ab- 
stract and  metaphysical  in  arguing  upon  tliis  question, 
lie  says,  happiness  must  be  an  end  in  itself,  and  not  a 
means  to  anything  else;  it  must  lie  within  the  proper 
ppliere  or  function  of  man — that  function  being  a  rational 
iuul  moral  life;  it  must  be,  not  a  merely  dormant  state, 
but  a  state  of  conscious  vitality;  and  lastly,  it  must  be 
in  ncc'ordance  with  the  law  of  excellence  proper  to  the 
fnnftion  of  man.  Tims  we  arrive  at  the  general  idea 
lh:it  the  highest  happiness  consists  in  the  harmonious 


90  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBBARY. 

exercise  of  man's  highest  powers;  and  the  treatise  ends 
by  declaring  particularly  that  the  speculative  reason  is 
man's  highest  endowment,  and  that  the  truest  happiness 
consists  in  philosophic  thought. 

"This,"  he  exclaims  ("Eth."  X.  vii.  7),  "would  be 
perfect  human  happiness,  if  prolonged  through  a  life 
of  full  duration.  Such  a  life,  however,  would  be  super- 
human; for  it  is  not  as  being  man  that  one  will  live  thus, 
but  by  virtue  of  a  certain  divine  element  subsisting 
within  us.  Just  as  this  element  far  excels  our  com- 
posite nature,  so  does  its  operation  excel  action  accord- 
ing to  the  moral  virtues.  Reason  in  comparison  with  man 
is  something  divine,  and  so  is  the  life  of  Reason  divine 
in  comparison  with  the  routine  of  man's  life.  One 
must  not,  however,  obey  those  who  bid  us  "think  hum- 
bly as  being  mortal  men,"  na3'-  rather  we  should  indulge 
immortal  longings,  and  strive  to  live  up  to  that  divine 
particle  within  us,  which,  though  it  be  small  in  propor- 
tionate bulk,  yet  in  power  and  dignity  far  surpasses  all 
the  other  parts  of  our  nature,  and  which  is  indeed  each 
man's  proper  self.  By  living  in  accordance  with  it  our 
true  individuality  will  be  developed.  And  such  a  life 
cannot  fail  to  be  happy  above  all  other  kinds  of  life." 

This,  then,  is  the  "mark"  which  Aristotle  sets  before 
men  to  "shoot  at"  ("Eth."I.  ii.  2)— namely,  the  at- 
tainment  of  a  state  in  which  one  should  live  above  the 
world,  occupied  with  philosophic  thought.  It  is  an 
ideal  picture,  to  which,  however,  approximations  may 
doubtless  be  made.  To  attain  it  completely  would  be, 
according  to  Aristotle,  to  attain  the  life  of  the  blessed 
existences,  such  as  the  sun  and  the  fixed  stars,  and  of 
God  Himself,  whose  essence  is  Reason,  and  His  life  "  a 
thinking  upon  thought"  ("Met."  XL  ix.  4).     This,  he 


i 


ARltSTOTLE.  91 

admits,  is  impossible  for  us;  but  yet,  be  says,  we  should 
aim  at  it.  "  Secondary  to  this,"  he  says,  "  in  point  of 
happiness,  is  the  life  of  moral  virtue."  And  here  we 
must  notice  the  peculiar  way  in  which  the  idea  of 
"virtue"  is  introduced  into  the  "Ethics."  Instead  of 
at  once  recognizing  the  law  of  moral  obligation  as  the 
deepest  thing  in  man,  Aristotle,  as  we  have  seen  above, 
introduces  the  idea  of  virtue  and  morality  in  a  dry  logi- 
cal way,  saying  that  the  chief  good  for  man  must  consist 
in  the  realization  of  his  powers  "  according  to  their 
own  proper  law  of  excellence."  Having  in  this  color- 
less and  neutral  way  brought  in  the  term  "excellence" 
or  virtue,  Aristotle  divides  it,  in  relation  to  man,  into 
moral  and  intellectual.  Of  the  former  he  proceeded 
immediately  to  treat  at  length;  of  the  latter  he  promised 
to  give  an  account,  but  only  an  imperfect  realization  of 
that  promise,  furnished  by  the  "  Eudemian"  paraphrase, 
has  come  down  to  us. 

Both  by  the  way  in  which  it  is  introduced,  and  the 
terms  in  which  it  is  finally  dismissed  ("Eth."  X.  viii.  1), 
the  moral  nature  of  man  is  made  to  hold  a  subsidiary 
place  in  Aristotle's  "Ethics."  Yet  still  we  find  that 
almost  all  the  treatise  is  taken  up  with  discussions 
directly  or  indirectly  concerning  the  practical  and 
moral  nature.  And  thus  Aristotle,  groping  his  way 
ill  a  science  which  had  as  yet  no  distinct  landmarks, 
contributed  much  towards  the  subsequent  deeper  con- 
ception of  ethical  questions.  One  service  which  he 
performed  was  to  distinguish  will  from  reason.  Soc- 
rates and  Plato  ha(^  been  content  to  describe  virtue  as 
knowledge,  or  an  enlightened  state  of  the  reason;  but 
Aristotle,  like  Kant  in  modern  times,  defined  it  as  a 
stale  of  the  will.  Secondly,  he  analyzed  the  forma- 
tion of  this  state,  and  explained  it  bylaw  doctrine  of 


93  TEE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

"habits."  By  observing  the  various  arts — as,  for  in- 
stance, barp-playing,  and  tlie  like — lie  saw  that  "prac- 
tice makes  perfect ;"  and  concluded  that  as  by  playing 
the  harp  a  man  became  a  harp-player,  so  by  doing  just 
things  a  man  would  become  just,  by  doing  brave  things 
he  would  become  brave;  and,  in  short,  that  actions 
have  a  tendency  to  reproduce  themselves,  and  thus  to 
produce  habits  or  states  of  the  will.  All  this  is  trite 
enough  now,  but  it  was  formulated  for  the  first  time  by 
Aristotle. 

In  laying  down  his  famous  doctrine  that  it  is  the 
characteristic  of  virtue  to  preserve  "the  mean,"  Aris- 
totle was  not  entirely  original.  In  this,  as  m  many 
other  cases,  he  only  fixed  into  scientific  form  a  concep- 
tion which  had  been  previously  floating  in  the  mind  of 
Greece.  Hesiod,  the  Seven  Sages,  the  unknown  au- 
thors of  "Maxims,"  the  Gnomic  poets,  Pindar,  and  the 
Tragedians,  had  all  preached  the  doctrine  of  modera- 
tion— a  doctrine  most  congenial  to  the  natural  good 
taste  of  the  Hellenic  people,  who  instinctively  despised 
excess  in  any  form  as  unintellectual  and  barbarous. 
What  had  hitherto  been  a  universal  popular  dictum, 
Plato  raised  into  philosophy,  by  pointing  out("Pliile- 
bus,"  p.  23-27)  that  in  all  things  the  law  of  "limit"  is 
the  cause  of  good,  while  the  unlimited,  the  unregu- 
lated, the  chaotic,  is  evil.  Thus,  in  the  human  body, 
the  unlimited  is  the  tendency  to  extremes,  to  disorder, 
to  disease;  but  the  intioduclion  of  the  limit  produces  a 
balance  of  the  constitution  and  good  health.  In  sounds 
you  have  the  infinite  degrees  of  deep  and  high,  quick 
and  slow;  but  the  limit  gives  rise  to  modulation  and 
harmony,  and  all  that  is  delightful  in  music.  In  cli- 
mate and  temperature,  where  the  limit  has  been  intro- 
duced, excessive  heats  and  violent  storms  subside,  and 


ARISTOTLE.  93 

tbe  mild  and  genial  seasons  in  their  order  follow.  In 
the  imman  mind  "the  goddess  of  the  limit"  checks  into 
submission  the  wild  and  wanton  p.issious,  and  gives 
rise  to  all  that  is  good.  Thus,  in  contemplating  all 
things,  whether  physical  or  moral,  there  was  present  to 
the  mind  of  Plato  the  same  train  of  associations — the 
same  ideas  of  measure,  proportion,  balance,  harmony, 
moderation,  and  the  like.  Elsewhere  ("  Republic,"  p. 
400)  he  dwells  especially  on  the  common  characteris- 
tics of  art  and  morality,  pointing  out  that  measure  and 
symmetry  are  the  causes  of  excellence  in  both  alike. 
Aristotle  took  over  these  thoroughly  Greek  ideas  from 
Plato,  and  adapted  them  to  big  own  purpose.  He 
slightly  changed  the  mode  of  expression:  instead  of 
"moderation"  he  introduced  a  mathematical  term, 
"  the  mean"  (for  instance,  2  is  the  mean  between  4  and 
6);  he  used  this  term  as  the  chief  feature  in  a  regular 
formal  definition  of  moral  virtue;  and  he  drew  out  a 
table  of  the  virtues  showing  that  eac-i  of  them  was  a 
mean  between  two  extremes.  Thus  ilie  virtue  Cour- 
age lies  between  the  vice  Cowardice,  >;L'ich  is  fearing 
too  much,  and  the  vice  Rashness,  whi».;li  is  fearing  too 
little.  And  virtue  generally  is  a  balaii.je  between  too 
much  and  too  little.  It  is  produced  ).y  the  introduc- 
tion of  tlie  law  of  the  mean  into  the  pabsions,  which  in 
themselves  are  unlimited.  But  what  is  this  "mean" — 
this  juste  milieti — and  how  is  it  ascertained?  Aristotle 
tells  us  that  it  is  not  merely  the  mid-point  between  two 
external  quantities,  but  it  is  the  mid-point  relatively  to 
the  moral  agent.  What  is  too  much  for  one  man — say, 
of  danger,  expense,  indulgence,  or  self-valuation — may 
be  by  no  means  too  much  for  another  man.  The  moral 
mean  is  thus  a  fluctuating  quantity,  dependent  on  con- 
siderations of  the  person   and  ihe  moment.     To    hit 


94  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBBARY. 

upon  it  exactly  requires  a  fine  tact,  for  ' '  virtue  is  more 
nice  and  delicate  than  the  finest  of  the  fine  arts" 
("  Eth."  11.  vi.  9).  This  tact,  or  sense  of  moral  beauty, 
we  have  by  nature  ("Politics,"  I.  ii.  12);  but  it  only 
exists  in  perfection,  after  cultivation  by  experience,  in 
ihe  mind  of  the  wise  man,  and  to  him  in  all  cases  must 
be  the  ultimate  appeal. 

Objection  has  been  raised  in  modern  times  to  the 
theory  of  Aristotle,  on  the  ground  that  it  makes  only  a 
quantitative  difference  between  virtue  and  vice.  A 
little  more  or  a  little  less  does  not  seem  to  us  to  consti- 
tute the  whole  difference  which  subsists  between 
"right"  and  "wrong.^'  But  we  must  remember  that 
the  Greeks  did  not  speak  of  actions  as  "right"  or 
"wrong,"  but  as  "beautiful"  and  "ugly."  From  this 
point  of  view  each  action  was  looked  upon  as  a  work 
of  art;  and  as  in  art  and  literature,  so  in  morals,  the 
great  aim  was  to  avoid  the  "too  much"  and  the  "too 
little,"  and  thus  to  attain  perfection.  This  idea  of 
beauty  and  grace  in  action  pervaded  the  Hellenic  life, 
and  good  taste  seemed  to  stand  in  the  place  of  con- 
science. To  attain  "the  beautiful"  is  considered  by 
Aristotle,  if  inferior  to  the  joys  of  philosophy,  still  as  a 
source  of  very  high  gratification ;  and  he  describes  the 
brave  man  ("Eth."  III.  ix.  4)  as  consciously  meeting 
death  in  a  good  cause,  and  consciously  sacrificing  a 
happy  life,  full  of  objects  wliich  he  holds  dear,  because 
by  so  doing  he  attains  "the  beautiful."  If  we  ask, 
how^ever,  what  constituted  the  beauty  of  this  ;ict, 
Aristotle's  doctrine  can  only  tell  us  that  the  brave  mau 
dared  and  feared  neither  too  much  nor  too  little,  but  in 
the  proper  degree  and  manner,  considering  the  circum- 
stances of  the  moment.  These  formulm,  however,  do 
not  appear  to  explain  what  we  should  consider  the 


ARISTOTLE.  95 

moral  beauty  of  the  act  in  question.  We  sliould  rather 
point  to  tlie  self-sacrifice  of  the  act — the  spectacle  of  an 
individual  preferring  to  his  own  life  the  good  of  others, 
the  defense  of  his  country,  the  maintenance  of  some 
noble  cause — as  what  was  beautiful  and  touching. 
"  The  mean"  may  serve  as  a  general  expression  for  the 
law  of  artistic  beauty,  but  it  seems  not  deep  enough  to 
express  what  we  prize  most  in  human  action. 

Aristotle's  table  of  the  virtues  does  not,  ot  course, 
comprise  the  Christian  qualities  of  humility,  charity, 
chastity,  self-devotion,  and  the  like.  It  even  falls  short 
of  the  summary  of  human  excellence  given  by  Plato  in 
his  enumeration  of  the  five  cardinal  virtues  ("  Pi'otag.," 
p.  349) — courage,  temperance,  justice,  wisdom,  and 
holiness.  Aristotle  separates  ethics  from  religi.»n,  and 
thus  leaves  out  all  consideration  of  "  holiness,  "a- man's 
conduct  in  relation  to  God.  "Wisdom"  ano  "Jus- 
tice" he  reserves  to  be  made  the  subject  of  separate 
discussions:  the  one  as  being  an  excellence  of  the  intel- 
lect, and  not  a  "  mean  state"  of  the  passions;  the  ether  as 
being  dependent  on,  and  mixed  up  with,  all  the  institu- 
tions of  the  State.  The  table,  then,  thus  restricted, 
contains  the  names  of  nine  or  ten  good  qualities,  such 
as  would  adorn  the  character  of  a  perfect  Grecian  gen- 
tleman. They  are  Courage,  Temperance,  Liberality, 
Magnificence  (liberality  on  a  larger  scale);  Magnanimity, 
or  Great-souledness;  Self-respect  (the  same  on  a  smaller 
scale),  Mildness,  Wit,  Truthfulness  of  manner,  and 
Friendliness.  And  the  pairs  of  extremes  which  respec- 
tively environ  each  of  these  "mean  states"  are  specified, 
in  some  cases  names  being  invented  for  cLcm.  The 
most  moral  of  the  virtues  here  named,  from  a  modern 
point  of  view,  is  Courage,  on  account  of  the  self-sacri- 
fice, the  endurance  of  danger,  pain,  and  death,  which 


96  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBliAUY. 

iii  implies.  Temperance  is  far  from  being  represented 
V.y  Aristotle  as  an  utter  self-abnegation;  he  says  (III. 
xi.  8)  that  the  temperate  man,  with  due  regard  to  hts 
health,  and  to  the  means  at  his  disposal,  and  acting 
under  the  law  of  the  beautiful,  will  preserve  a  balance 
in  regard  to  the  pleasures  of  sense.  Aristotle  loves  the 
virtues  of  Liberality  and  Magnificence  (the  latter  mean- 
ing tasteful  outlay  on  great  objects)  on  account  of  their 
brilliancy.  He  undervalues  the  virtue  of  saving,  and 
erroneously  considers  that  parsimony  does  more  harm 
than  spendthrift  waste.  He  describes  Magnanimity  by 
drawing  a  fancy  portrait  of  the  "  Great-souled  man." 
Such  a  man  has  all  the  Aristotelian  virtues;  he  is  great 
and  superior  to  other  men,  and  has  a  corresponding  lofti- 
ness of  soul.  He  will  not  compete  for  the  common 
objects  of  ambition;  he  will  only  attempt  great  and 
important  matters,  and  otherwise  will  seem  inactive; 
he  will  be  open  in  friendship  and  hatred,  really  straight- 
forward and  deeply  truthful,  but  reserved  and  ironical 
in  lucnner  to  common  people.  He  will  live  for  his 
frif^ud  alone,  will  wonder  at  nothing,  will  bear  no  malice, 
w'mI  be  no  gossip,  will  not  be  anxious  about  trifles,  will 
care  more  to  possess  that  which  is  beautiful  than  that 
which  is  profitable.  His  movements  are  slow,  his  voice 
i:j  deep,  and  his  diction  is  stately. 

The  four  last  virtues  in  the  table  are  qualities  to  adorn 
the  external  man  in  society,  and  as  such  seem  more 
worthy  of  a  place  in  Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters  than  in 
a  treatise  of  Moral  Philosophy.  To  be  mild  without 
being  spiritless;  to  be  friendly  without  servility;  to  have 
a  simple  manner  without  either  assumption  or  mock- 
humility;  and  to  be  witty  without  buffoonerj'- — these 
achievements  constitute  the  minor  excellences  with 
which  Aristotle  concludes  his  list.     PTe  was  proceeding 


ARISTOTLE.  97 

to  show  that  the  law  of  the  mean  is  exemplified  in  the 
instinctive  feelings  of  modesty  and  virtuous  indigna- 
tion— when,  through  some  unknown  cause,  his  MS. 
broke  off  ("  Eth."  IV.  ix.8)  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence. 
What  should  have  followed  here  was,  first,  a  dis- 
sertation on  the  nature  of  Justice;  and,  secondly,  an 
account  of  the  Intellectual  excellences.  And  it  was 
very  important  that  tliis  part  of  the  work  should  be 
adequately  executed.  Under  the  head  of  Justice  fell 
to  be  considered  ("Eth."  IV.  vii.  7)  the  relation  of  the 
individual  to  truth  of  word  and  deed.  And  an  ade- 
quate account  of  Justice  and  of  Wisdom  might  have 
redeemed  Aristotle's  previous  account  of  moral  virtue 
from  that  superficial  appearance  which  it  must  be  said 
to  present.  But  unfortunately  we  do  not  appear  to 
possess  at  first  hand  Aristotle's  execution  of  this  part 
of  his  task.  What  happened  may  perhaps  have  been 
this:  when  Aristotle  arrived  at  this  point,  he  put 
aside  the  subject  of  Justice,  to  be  treated  after  he  had 
written  his  "  Politics"  and  had  cleared  his  views  on  the 
foundations  of  Justice  in  the  State.  At  the  same  time 
he  put  aside  the  subject  of  the  Intellectual  excellences, 
perhaps  till  he  should  have  written  his  "Metaphysics." 
It  must  be  remembered  that  he  kept  many  parts  of  his 
Encyclopaedia  in  course  of  construction  at  once,  and 
he  would  drop  one  pai-  and  take  up  another,  as  suited 
his  train  of  thought.  In  the  present  case  he  did  not 
entirely  abandon  nis  "*  Ethics,"  but  went  on  to  write  the 
three  last  books,  merely  leaving  the  center  part  to  l*e 
filled  in  subsequently.  Doubtless  the  matter  for  that 
center  part  was  expounded  to  and  discussed  in  the 
Peripatetic  school,  but  Aristotle  probably  never  him- 
self expressed  it  in  literary  form.  When,  however, 
Eud*-      £  came  to  write  his  paraphrase  of  the  "Ethics," 


98  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

he  was  enabled  to  fill  in  the  gap  which  still  existed  in 
them  by  supplying  a  portion,  the  matter  of  which  partly 
came  from  school  notes  and  partly  from  Aristotle's 
other  writings,  while  the  language  was  that  of  Eudemus 
himself,  continuous  with  the  rest  of  the  paraphrase. 
Afterwards  Nicomachus,  or  some  other  editor,  took 
this  supplementary  piece  from  the  "Eudemian  Ethics" 
and  stuck  it  in  as  Books  V.,  VI.,  YII.  of  the  "  Ethics" 
of  Aristotle. 

The  theory  of  Justice  which  has  thus  come  down  to 
us  as  Aristotle's,  is  indistinctly  stated  in  Book  V.  It 
seems  to  be  borrowed  a  good  deal  from  the  "Politics;" 
it  expounds  the  principles  of  Justice  which  exist  in  the 
State,  and  merely  defines  Justice  in  the  individual  as 
the  will  to  conform  to  these  principles.  Thus  really  no 
coutribution  to  ethical  science  is  made.  It  is  shown 
how  Justice  is  manifested  (1)  in  distributions  by  the 
State  (2)  in  correctiug  wrongs  done  between  man  and 
man,  (3)  in  the  ordinary  course  of  commerce.  Some 
first  steps  in  political  economy,  being  remarks  on  the 
nature  of  money,  on  value,  and  on  price,  given  in 
chap,  v.,  are  perhaps  the  most  interesting  points  in 
this  book. 

Book  VI.  appears  to  be  a  good  deal  oorrowed  from 
Aristotle's  "  Organon"  and  treatise  "On  the  Soid."  It 
is  confusedly  written,  and  two  questions  appear  to  be 
mixed  up  in  it:  (1)  "What  is  the  Moral  Standard  ? 
(2)  What  are  the  Intellectual  excellences?  The  former 
question  receives  no  definite  answer;  with  regard  to  the 
latter  wc  are  informed  that  there  are  two  distinct  and 
supremely  good  modes  of  the  intellect — "Wisdom," 
which  is  the  culmination  of  the  philosophic  reason,  and 
"  Thought,"  which  is  the  perfection  of  the  practical 
reason.     This  latter  quality  forms  the  main  subject  of 


ARISTOTLE.  99 

the  book.  It  is  described  as  being  developed  in  com- 
bination witli  tlie  development  of  the  moral  will.  It 
is  an  ideal  attribute,  and  we  are  told  that  "he  who  has 
'  thought'  possesses  all  the  virtues"  ("  Eth."  VI.  xiii.  6). 
The  distinction  here  indicated  between  the  practical 
and  philosophic  reason  was  undoubtedly  a  contribution 
to  psychology  first  made  by  Aristotle.  It  was  an  im- 
provement upon  the  views  of  Plato,  and  a  step  towards 
those  of  Kant. 

Book  VII.  supplies,  in  the  words  of  Eudemus,  a 
valuable  complement  to  Aristotle's  moral  system.  It 
discusses  the  intermediate  states  between  virtue  and 
vice,  and  especially  analyzes  the  state  called  "incon- 
tinence," or  "weakness,"  as  exhibited  in  the  process  of 
yielding  to  temptation.  By  aid  of  the  forms  of  the 
syllogism  it  is  shown  how,  while  having  good  princi- 
ples in  our  mind,  we  may  fail  under  temptation  to  act 
upon  them.  On  the  other  hand,  tlie  idea  is  introduced 
of  an  ideally  vicious  man,  who  has  no  conscience  or  re- 
morse, but  all  his  mind  is  in  harmony  with  the  dictates 
of  vice;  a  conception  with  which  we  may  compare  the 
character  drawn  by  Shelley  in  his  portrait  of  Count 
Cenci.  The  whole  of  this  book  is  marked  by  a  phrase- 
ology different  fiom  and  later  than  that  of  the  genu- 
ine parts  of  the  'Ethics.'  It  deals  much  in  physiolo- 
gical considerations,  and  it  winds  up  with  a  modified 
paraphrase  of  Aristotle's  treatise  on  Pleasure,  given  in 
Book  X. 

Books  VIII.  and  IX.  treat  of  Friendship,  which  "is 
either  a  virtue,  or  is  closely  connected  with  virtue ;"  and 
no  part  of  the  whole  treatise  is  more  pleasing  or  ad- 
mirable. The  idea  of  friendship  has  probably  always 
found  a  place  among  civilized  nations,  but  it  obtained 
peculiar  prominence  among  the  Greeks,  partly  owing  to 


100  THE  ELZEVIR  LWHARY. 

the  subordinate  positioa  assigned  to  women,  and  the 
consequent  rarity  of  sympathetic  marriages.  Among 
the  Dorians,  from  early  times,  there  had  subsisted  a 
custom  by  which  each  warrior  had  attaclied  to  him,  as 
his  squire  a  boy  whom  he  was  expected  to  inspire  with 
becoming  thoughts.  Tlie  one  member  in  this  pair  was 
called  "the  inbreather,"  tlie  other  "  the  listener."  Out 
of  this  custom  sentimental  relationships  arose,  which 
Plato  approving  wrote  his  famous  descriptions  of  those 
pure  and  passionate  attachments  between  persons  of 
the  same  sex,  known  as  "Platonic  love."  With  this 
sentimentality  Aristotle  did  not  sympathize,  but  yet 
there  is  no  coldness  in  his  picture  of  friendship.  He 
asserts  enthusiastically  the  glow  of  the  heart  which  is 
caused  by  contemplating  the  actions  of  a  virtuous  friend 
(IX.  ix.  5),  and  declares  that  without  this  element  in 
life  no  one  can  be  called  truly  happy.  Lord  Bacon's 
splendid  essay  "Of  Friendship"  may  be  compared  with 
these  pages;  but  Bacon's  account  of  the  advantages  of  a 
friend  is  on  a  lower  level  and  less  philosophical  than 
that  given  by  Aristotle,  who  goes  to  the  root  of  the 
matter  in  saying  that  what  a  friend  really  does  for  you 
is,  by  the  joint  operation  of  sympathy  and  contrast,  of 
quasi  identity  and  yet  diversity — to  intensify  the  sense 
of  your  personal  existence,  and  to  give  you  that  vivid- 
ness of  vitality  on  which  happiness  depends  (IX.  ix.  7). 
In  this  proposition  the  two  books  culminate,  but  they 
are  full  of  lucid  distinctions,  and  also  of  high  moralit3^ 
Friendship  (as  has  been  seen  above,  p.  77)  is  represented 
by  Aristotle  as  an  utterly  disinterested  feeling,  often 
calling  for  great  self-sacrifice.  Sometimes,  he  saj's, 
the  good  man  may  be  called  upon  to  die  for  his  friends 
(IX.  viii.  9);  and  as  a  delicate  form  of  disinterestedness 
he  inquires  whether  in  some  cases  one  ought  not  to  give 


ARISTOTLE.  101 

up  to  one's  friend,  instead  of  seizing  for  one's  self,  the 
opportunity  of  doing  noble  actions. 

Almost  the  only  matter  of  any  importance  in  the 
"Ethics"  of  Aristotle  which  we  have  not  already  sum- 
marized is  his  disquisition  on  Pleasure  in  Book  X. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  abstract  questioning  in  the 
time  of  Aristotle  as  to  whether  Pleasure  could  be  "the 
chief  good,"  or  whether  it  could  be  considered  a  good 
at  all.  The  Platonists  were  disposed  to  be  hard  upon 
Pleasure.  But  all  this  turned  a  good  deal  upon  the 
prior  question,  "  What  Pleasure  is?"  Aristotle  showed 
that  an  erroneous  definition  had  been  taken  up  by  the 
Platonic  school,  who  considered  pleasure  to  be  a  sense 
of  restoration — a  sense  of  our  powers,  after  exhaustion, 
being  brought  up  to  their  normal  state.  Kant  has 
given  a  very  similar  definition,  saying  that  "pleasure 
is  the  sense  of  that  which  promotes  life,  pain  of  that 
which  hinders  it."  Aristotle  says  that  this  is  wrong; 
that  it  applies  only  to  eating  and  drinking,  and  such 
things,  and  that  Pleasure  is  not  "  the  sense  of  what 
promotes  life,"  but  the  sense  of  life  itself;  the  sense  of 
the  vital  powers,  the  sense  that  any  faculty  whatsoever 
has  met  its  proper  object.  Pleasure,  then,  according 
to  the  Platonists,  was  the  accompaniment  of  an  imper- 
fect condition,  like  recovery  after  illness.  According 
to  Aristotle  it  was,  except  in  the  case  of  certain  spurious 
pleasures,  the  play  and  action  of  that  which  is  healthy 
in  us.  From  this  point  of  view  it  is  obvious  that 
Pleasure  must  in  itself  be  a  good,  and  that  when  it  con- 
sists in  the  exercise  of  the  highest  faculties  (see  above, 
p.  89)  it  becomes  identical  with  the  highest  happiness. 
Lest  it  be  thought  that  this  exultation  of  Pleasure  might 
have  dangerous  results  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  we 
will  mention  one  safeguard    which  accompanies  the 


102  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

Aristotelian  doctrine.  He  tells  us  that  for  anything  to 
be  "good"  in  life,  it  must  be  an  eud-in-itself :  that  is — 
something  desirable  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  as  a  mere 
means  to  something  else;  something  thoroughly  worthy, 
in  which  the  mind  can  rest  satisfied.  Thus  all  mere 
amusements  are  excluded  from  being  good,  because  they 
are  not  ends-in-themselves.  And  this  maxim  may  be 
deduced  from  Aristotle:  "  Act  as  far  as  possible  so  that 
at  any  moment  you  may  be  able  to  say  to  yourself, 
*  What  I  am  now  doing  is  an  end-in-itself.* " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ARISTOTLE'S   "POLITICS." 

The  "  Ethics  "  of  Aristotle  end  with  the  words,  "  Let 
us  then  commence  our  'Politics.'"  He  had  described 
virtue  and  happiness,  but  neither  of  these,  he  says,*  is 
attainable  by  any  human  being  apart  from  society. 
Moral  development  and  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  ex- 
ercise of  our  powers  equally  demand  certain  external 
conditions;  they  cannot  exist  save  by  the  aid  of  a 
settled  community,  social  habits,  the  restraint  and  pro- 
tection of  laws,  and  even  a  wisely  regulated  system  of 
public  education.  Man  is  by  nature  asocial  creature; 
he  cannot  isolate  himself  without  becoming  either  more 
or  less  than  man — "either  a  god  or  a  beast."  The  State 
is,  therefore,  a  prime  necessity  for  the  "  well-doing  and 
well-being"  of  the  individual.  In  fact,  says  Aristotle, f 
you  cannot  form  any  conception  of  man  m  his  normal 
condition — that  is  to  say,  in  a  civilized  condition — ex 
cept  as  a  member  of  a  State.     On  these  grounds  Aristotle 

*  "  Eth."  X.  X.  8-23.  t  "  Pol."  I.  ii.  13,  14. 


ARISTOTLE.  103 

proposed  to  go  on  to  the  writing  of  liis  "Politics  "  as  the 
complement  and  conclusion  of  his  ethical  treatise.  But 
some  time  probably  elapsed  before  the  design  was 
carried  out;*  and  in  tlie  interval  it  is  not  unreasonable 
to  suppose  that  Aristotle,  seeking,  as  usual,  to  base 
theory  upon  experience,  was  engaged  in  making  that 
remarkable  collection  called  the  "Constitutions"  (see 
above,  p.  43),  which  contained  a  history  and  description 
of  no  less  than  158  States,  and  of  which  numerous 
fragments  remain. 

However  this  may  be,  the  "Politics"  forms  a  rich 
repertory  of  facts  relating  to  the  history  of  Greece. 
And  it  abounds,  too,  in  the  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  in  wise  and  penetrating  observations  on.  the 
conduct  and  motives  of  mankind,  many  of  which  are 
applicable  to  all  times  and  countries.  The  treatise  is 
not  entire;  it  breaks  off  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the 
most  interesting  parts  of  all,  namely,  Aristotle's  theory 
of  education.  Perhaps  this  was  one  of  the  cases  in 
which  Aristotle,  finding  that  his  mind  was  not  fully- 
made  up  on  a  particular  subject,  dropped  that  subject 
for  the  time,  meaning  to  revert  to  it,  but  never  actu- 
ally doing  so.  Besides  its  unfinished  condition,  the 
"  Politics  "  also  shows  indications  of  a  certain  amount 
of  disarrangement  in  the  order  of  its  books.  If  re- 
arranged according  to  their  natural  order,  the  books  in 
Bekker's  edition  would  stand  thus  : 

Book  I.  On  the  Family  as  a  constituent  element  in 
the  State. 

Book  II.  Containing  a  criticism  of  some  previous 
theories  about  the  State,  and  of  some  remarkable  actual 
constitutions. 

*  Spengel,  one  of  the  most  judicious  of  German  critics,  says 
that  '•  the  '  Politics '  was  written  A<>>fl4  after  the  '  Ethics.' " 


104  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

Books  III.,  YII.,  VIII.  Giving  Aristotle's  own  con- 
ception of  an  Ideal  State, — unfortunately  not  con- 
cluded. 

Books  IV.,  VI.,  V.  Forming  a  return  from  the  ideal 
point  of  view  to  practical  statesmanship,  and  suggesting 
remedies  for  different  evils  apparent  in  the  contempo- 
rary Governments  of  Greece. 

It  has  been  well  pointed  out  *  that  in  Aristotle's  treat- 
ment of  the  above-mentioned  subjects  three  incongruous 
elements  may  be  detected:  "really  scientific  inquiry, 
aristocratic  prejudice,  and  the  dreams  of  a  metaphysical 
philosophy  which  soars  to  heaven  and  listens  for  the 
eternal  harmonies  of  nature."  The  scientific  spirit 
shows  itself  in  the  vast  apparatus  of  history  which 
Aristotle  employs,  his  researches  into  the  customs 
of  barbarous  tribes,  and  his  careful  recognition  of  the 
immense  variety  to  be  found  in  constitutions  coming 
under  the  same  general  name  (such  as  Democracy, 
Aristocracy,  etc.)  when  studied  according  to  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  each  case.  All  this  would  constitute 
his  work  a  contribution  to  the  science  of  "  Comparative 
Politics." 

But  another  spirit,  alien  from  that  of  free  and  in- 
ductive inquiry,  occasionally  manifests  itself,  especially 
when  Aristotle  appeals  to  "  nature"  either  in  defending 
or  attacking  any  institution.  "  Nature"  Is,  of  course,  a 
rather  slippery  word :  it  may  mean  either  of  two  things 
— either  "  primitive  condition,"  in  which  sense  a  savage 
is  in  a  state  of  nature;  or  "  normal  condition,"  in  which 
sense  the  most  perfectly  civilized  man  has  attained  his 
natural  state.      The  latter  sense  is  the  one  which  Aris- 


*  Mr.  A.  Lang's  Essays  on  Aristotle's  '"Politics,"  p.  15  (Long- 
mans, 1877). 


AmSTOTLE.  105 

totle  generally  has  in  his  mind;  he  generally  means  by 
"nature"  the  normal  and  perfect  state  of  things,  or  a 
power  in  the  woild  working  towards  that  normal  state. 
But  the  question  arises,  How  do  we  know  what  is  the 
perfect  aud  normal  state  of  things?  Philosophers  are 
too  apt  to  dignify  by  the  name  of  "  nature"  any  ar- 
rangement for  which  they  may  have  a  predilection. 
And  Aristotle  cannot  be  entirely  exonerated  from 
having  done  so.  He  sometimes  attributes  a  sort  of 
divine  right  to  things  as  they  are,  calling  them 
"natural."  Thus  he  treats  of  the  family  as  "nat- 
urally" constituted  of  man,  wife,  child,  and  slave. 
Certain  reformers  of  the  4th  century  B.C.  fiad  already 
lifted  up  their  voices  against  the  institution  of  slavery. 
They  had  argued  that  the  slave  was  of  the  same  flesh 
and  blood  as  his  master,  and  might  be  as  good  as  lie; 
and  that,  in  short,  slavery  was  merely  an  unjust  and 
oppressive  custom  which  mankind  could  and  shoul.l 
alter.  But  to  the  mind  of  Aristotle  slavery  was  a 
necessary  institution  in  order  to  provide  citizens  with 
that  amount  of  leisure  which  would  enable  ihem  to 
live  ideal  lives  in  the  pursuit  of  the  true  and  the 
beautiful  (see  above,  p.  88).  Therefore  with  uncon- 
scious bias  he  proceeded  to  argue  that  slavery  was 
"  natural,"  on  the  ground  that  some  races  of  mon  were 
by  "nature"  born  to  serve,  being  deficicTit  in  that 
"  large  discourse"  of  reason  which  other  mefi  possessed, 
and  which  gave  them  a  "  natural"  right  .o  command. 
He  seeks  for  external  indications  of  this  gvat  difference 
between  man  and  man,  and  says  that  si? /es  are  "bar- 
barians" {i.e.,  ignorant  of  the  Greek  'anguage  and 
Greek  manners),  and  again,  that  they  hrv©  not  the  up^ 
right  bearing  of  freemen  trained  in  the  g vmnasia.  But 
he  admits  that  "nature"  hfis  faile(i  in  outwardly  piaik- 


106  THE  ISLZEVm  LIP, II A] tY. 

ing  with  sullicient  distinctness  the  inward  difference 
between  tlie  slave  and  liis  master.  Yet  still  he  is  not 
shaken  in  his  doctrine,  but  even  asserts  that  it  is  lawful 
to  make  war  on  races  which  were  intended  by  "  nature" 
to  be  slaves,  and  to  reduce  them  to  slavery.  These 
views  may  seem  shocking;  but  yet  they  admit  of 
some  palliation.  Christian  theologians  and  divines,  till 
within  a  very  recent  time,  have  defended  slavery,  ap- 
pealing in  its  behalf  to  the  sanction  of  the  Bible;  and 
even  the  virtuous  Bishop  Berkeley,  while  sojourning  at 
Rhode  Island,  became  the  owner  of  slaves.  The  lot  of 
a  slave  in  Attica  seems,  generally  speaking,  not  to  have 
been  a  b.^  1  one.  And  Aristotle,  in  wishing  the  "natu- 
rally" dcKv  'ent  races  of  mankind  to  be  brought  into 
bondage,  stju  qs  to  have  had  some  idea  of  the  benefit 
they  would  derive  from  being,  as  it  were,  sent  to 
school. 

In  another  matter  Aristotle  appealed  to  '*  nature"  not 
in  defending,  but  iu  attacking,  one  of  the  institutions 
of  society — namely;  liie  putting  out  money  at  interest. 
Aristotle  had  many  of  the  prejudices  of  a  "gentleman;" 
we  have  seen  before  (r-  96)  how  he  admired  a  brilliant 
liberality,  and  thought  iittle  of  the  virtue  of  saving. 
He  acknowledged  that  means  must  be  forthcoming  for 
the  maintenance  of  the  family,  but,  if  possible,  he 
would  have  these  means  come  from  the  produce  of  the 
soil,*  crops,  animals,  or  minerals,  for  these  sources  of 
support  are  "natural."  "WHh  trade  and  traffic  he  had 
no  sympathy,  but  he  admitted  that  practically  they 
must  go  on;  and  he  said  ..hat  people  who  valued  suc- 
cess in  such  things  might  try  and  imitate  the  philoso- 
pher Thales,  who  foresaw,  by  his  astrology,  on  one  oc- 

*'!Pol."I.  X.  3. 


AUrSTOTLE.  107 

casion,  that  there  would  be  a  great  olive  liarvest,  and 
while  it  was  still  winter  hired  all  the  olive  presses  in 
the  country,  and  when  the  demand  for  these  set  in,  was 
able  to  get  his  own  terms  and  realize  a  large  sum, 
"thus  showing  that  it  is  easy  for  philosophers  to  be 
rich,  if  they  only  cared  about  it."  These  contemptuous 
expressions  in  regard  to  commerce  clearly  indicate  that 
Aristotle  did  not  take  a  calm  intellectual  view  of  the 
subject;  he  did  not  see  that  it  was  a  subject  worthy  of 
being  reduced  to  a  science,  else  he  would  not  have  left 
the  doing  of  this  to  Adam  Smith.  Yet  still  in  a  book 
full  of  the  shrewdest  remarks  on  social  arrangements 
we  cannot  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  antiquated  look  of 
the  announcement  that  "lending  money  on  interest 
is  justly  abominated,  and  is  the  most  unnatural  of  all 
forms  of  gain,  for  it  diverts  money  from  its  proper  pur- 
pose (which  was  to  be  a  mere  instrument  of  exchange) 
and  forces  it  unnaturally  to  breed."*  This  saying  of 
Aristotle's  doubtless  did  something  to  foster  the  prej- 
udice against  "usury"  and  Jews,  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  notion  is  apparently  based 
upon  the  first-mentioned  conception  of  "nature" — as 
the  primitive  state  of  things.  "  Interest  is  not  a  primi- 
tive institution,  and  therefore  it  is  unnatural "  The 
very  opposite  of  this  conclusion  would  be  thought  true 
nowadays.  We  feel  now  that  money  unspent  "natu- 
rally" acquires  interest  and  compound  interest,  and  that 
in  a  civilized  community  nothing  is  more  unnatural 
than  the  "  talent  laid  up  in  a  napkin." 


*  Compare  Shakespeare,  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  Act  i.  scene 
3:— 

Antonio.  Or  is  your  gold  and  silver  ewes  and  rams? 
Shylock.    I  cannot  tell;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast. 


108  THE  KLZKVin   LIBl^AUY. 

An  enthusiastic  and  almost  mystical  spirit  exhibits 
itself  in  Aristotle  when  he  discourses  on  the  Ideal  State. 
Having  laid  it  down  that  Happiness  for  the  3tate  and 
for  the  individual  is  one  and  the  same  ("Pol."  VH. 
ii.  1),  he  seems  for  a  moment  to  waver  and  hesitate  as 
to  whether  he  should  not  retract  the  doctriue  expressed 
in  the  "Ethics"  (see  above,  p.  89),  that  the  happiness 
to  be  found  in  a  life  of  thought  is  incomparably 
superior  to  that  to  be  found  in  a  life  of  action.  Could 
tliis  be  said  of  a  State— that  is,  of  a  whole  community? 
If  a  whole  community  is  engaged  in  the  fruition  of 
philosophical  thought,  must  tliey  not  be  isolated  from 
international  relations  and  cut  off  from  the  world?  But 
Aristotle  docs  not  flinch  ultimately  from  the  results  of 
his  doctrine.  He  says  ("Pol."  VIL  ii.  16)  that  "it 
is  quite  possible  that  a  State  may  be  situated  in  some 
isolated  position,"  enjoying  good  laws  and  knowing 
nothing  of  war  or  foreign  relations,  and  that  in  such  a 
state  (VII.  iii.  8)  the  community  maybe  engaged  in  con- 
templations and  thoughts  which  have  their  own  end  in 
themselves,  and  do  not  aim  at  any  external  results.  As 
is  the  life  of  God  or  of  the  conscious  universe  (each 
brooding  over  their  own  perfections),  such  will  be  the 
life  of  tiie  Ideal  State! 

This  announcement  of  the  highest  end  to  be  aimed 
at  by  Politics  is  as  if  some  modern  writer,  in  treating 
of  the  State,  should  seek  to  identify  it  with  the  Invis- 
ible Church  of  God.  Or,  again,  it  may  remind  us  of 
the  saying  that  the  supreme  and  ultimate  product  of 
civilization  is  "two  or  three  gentlemen  talking  together 
in  a  room."  This  paradox  is  true  and  quite  Aristotelian : 
mental  activities  are  the  highest  things  of  all;  enact- 
ments, and  police,  and  wars,  and  treaties  exist  for  the 
sake  of  order,  of  which  the  best  fruit  is  the  mutual  play 


ARISTOTLE.  109 

of  intelligence  and  the  glow  of  friendship.  But  one 
peculiarity  of  Aristotle's  ideal  politics  is  the  compara- 
tive smallness  of  their  scale.  Lilce  a  tiue  Greek,  he 
does  not  think  of  nations  and  empires,  but  of  city- 
states.  It  has  been  said  that  the  city-state  was  some- 
thing like  the  University  of  modern  times.  Aristotle 
regarded  it  as  an  organism  of  limited  size,  in  which 
every  citizen  should  have  his  function,  and  in  Avhich 
every  one  should  be  personally  known  to  the  rulers. 
He  said  ("Eth."  IX.  x.  iii.)  that  100,000  citizens 
would  be  far  too  many  to  constitute  a  State.  Some 
of  the  peculiarities  of  his  Ideal  State  may  be  speci- 
fied as  follows: — Every  full  citizen  was  to  be  a  land- 
owner, with  slaves  to  cultivate  his  soil,  but  no  great 
accumulation  of  property  in  any  one  man's  hands 
was  to  be  allowed.  The  citizens  were  to  constitute  a 
warrior  caste,  and  were  each  to  be  admitted  in  turn, 
when  of  mature  age,  to  a  share  in  the  government. 
No  artisan  or  tradesman  was  to  be  a  citizen:  the  city 
was  to  have  a  harbor,  but  not  too  near,  so  as  not  to  be 
flooded  with  strangers;  the  navy  was  to  be  manned  by 
slaves;  the  city  itself  was,  for  salubritj^  to  slope 
towards  the  east  and  to  catch  the  Avinds  of  morning. 
Lastly,  the  State  itself  was  to  be  a  perfect  Sparta  in 
point  of  discipline,  though  aiming  at  something  higher 
than  mere  gymnastic  and  military  drill.  There  was  to 
be  a  common  primary  instruction  for  all  the  citizens 
from  the  age  of  seven  to  fourteen,  and  a  common  sec- 
ondary instruction  from  fourteen  to  twenty-one.  The 
"branches"  were  to  be  gymnastic,  letters,  drawing,  and 
music.  Everything  was  to  be  taught  with  a  view  to 
culture,  rather  than  to  utility.  Thus  the  object  of 
learning  drawing  was  "  to  make  one  observant  of 
beauty."    In   regard    to    gymnastic,  Aristotle    wisely 


no  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

warns  against  a  premature  strain  of  the  powers,  and 
says  that  it  is  very  rare  for  the  same  person  to  have  won 
a  prize,  as  a  boy,  and  as  a  man,  at  the  Olympic  games. 
He  lays  great  stress  on  tlie  moral  and  educational  influ- 
ence of  music,  and  its  efficacy  in  "purging"  the  emo- 
Tious  (see  above,  p.  84).  He  disparages  pipe-playing, 
which,  he  says,  was  adopted  by  the  Athenians  in  the 
glorious  period  of  license  succeeding  their  victories  over 
the  Persians;  and  adds  that  *'  pipe-playing  not  only  dis- 
figures the  face,  but  has  nothing  intellectual  in  it."  It 
is  difficult  for  us  to  enter  into  many  of  the  feeiings  of 
the  ancients  about  music  Aristotle  lauds  the  "Dorian 
mood;"  and  here  his  treatise  breaks  off,  without  his 
having  given  us  his  theory  as  to  instruction  in  litera- 
ture, or  as  to  the  secondary  instruction  in  general  of  his 
ideal  citizens. 

In  constructing  a  Utopia,  Aristotle  was,  of  course, 
following  the  example  of  the  celebrated  "  Republic"  of 
Plato;  but  his  object  was  to  improve  upon  the  concep- 
tions of  his  master,  whom  he  criticised  with  courtesy, 
but  in  a  prosaic  spirit.  Plato's  "city"  avowedly  ex- 
isted in  dreamland,  but  Aristotle  applied  to  it  the 
tests  of  historical  experience  and  everyday  possibility. 
While  acceptmg  the  idea  of  a  city  of  contemplation, 
Aristotle  determined  that  its  institutions  should  be 
such  as  to  approve  themselves  to  practical  common- 
sense.  The  contrast  between  the  two  philosophers  in 
this  matter  is  very  striking — tlie  one  daring,  creative, 
and  full  of  the  play  of  fancy ;  the  other  laborious,  mat- 
ter-of-fact, and  scientific.  It  is  not  certain  that  Plato's 
wild  suggestions  for  a  community  of  wives  and  prop- 
erty were  meant  to  be  taken  seriously;  but  Aristotle 
takes  them  so,  and  gives  us  the  first  arguments  on  record 
agiinst   Communism.     He   defends    the   institution   of 


ARIISTOTLE.  Ill 

property  as  "natural,"  and  says  that  "  it  makes  an  un- 
speakable difference  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  tiling  to  feel 
that  it  is  your  own."  All  bis  remarks  on  this  point  are 
sagacious;  but  there  is  a  singular  spirit  of  conservatism 
shown  in  his  saying  ("  Pol."  II.  v.  16)  that  "  if  Plato's 
notions  bad  been  good  they  would  have  been  adopted 
long  ago."  Instead  of  looking  forward  to  a  future  of 
discovery  and  progress,  Aristotle  rather  looked  back, 
thinking  that  all  perfection  had  been  attained  in  the 
past. 

In  Books  IV.,  VI.,  V.  of  his  "Politics"  (see  above, 
p.  104),  Aristotle  turns  from  the  ideal  to  the  actual,  and 
lays  down  a  theory  of  the  different  forms  of  government 
which  are  possible,  the  causes  which  give  rise  to  these 
different  forms,  their  respective  merits  and  disadvan- 
tages, and  the  practical  means  for  obviating  the  evils  to 
which  they  are  respectively  exposed.  Greek  society  was 
very  unstable ;  Athens  and  many  other  cities  were,  like 
Paris  during  the  last  half-century,  in  chronic  expecta- 
tion of  a  revolution.  Therefore  a  theory  of  seditions 
and  revolutions  became  an  essential  part  of  Greek  polit- 
ical science,  and  Aristotle  furnishes  one  accordingly, 
containing  the  wise  remark  that  "small  things  are  never 
the  cause,  though  they  are  often  the  occasion,  of  popu- 
lar revolt."  He  shows  that  there  are  three  normal  forms 
of  government — the  Monarchy,  or  government  by  one 
wise  ruler;  the  Aristocracy,  or  government  by  a  select 
number  of  the  wisest  and  best;  and  the  "  Constitution," 
or  mixed  government,  in  which  democratic,  monarchic, 
and  aristocratical  elements  are  balanced  against  each 
other.  Each  of  these  normal  and  perfect  forms,  wher- 
ever they  have  existed,  has  followed  a  tendency  to  di- 
verge into  a  corruption  of  itself — the  monarchy  de- 
generates into  Tyranny,  the  aristocracy  into  Oligarchy, 


112  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBEART. 

and  the  "Constitution"  into  Democracy.  These  lowei 
forms  are  the  kinds  of  government  whicli  Aristotle  prac- 
tically finds  in  the  world.  He  shows  how  each  of  them 
is  constantly  menaced  by  revolution,  and  from  what 
special  causes,  namely,  the  peculiar  jealousies  which 
each  is  apt  to  engender.  He  says  that  it  is  not  the  de- 
sire of  gain,  so  much  as  tenacity  of  rights  or  fancied 
ights,  that  causes  revolution.  He  gives  various  pieces 
of  advice  to  those  who  administer  the  different  forms 
of  government — one  of  which  is  that  each  government 
should  avoid  emphatically  asserting  its  own  special 
character.  The  democracy  should  be  as  little  demo- 
cratic, the  tyrant  as  little  tyrannous,  the  oligarchy  as 
little  exclusive  and  overbearing  as  possible — so  that  in 
each  case  some  approach  might  be  made  to  the  golden 
"  mean,"  which  is  the  true  cause  of  political  stability. 

In  his  high  appreciation  of  the  "Constitution,"  or 
well-mixed  government,  Aristotle  may  be  thought  to 
have  had  an  unconscious  anticipation  of  the  guarded 
liberties,  and  of  the  combination  of  order  with  progress, 
which  are  the  blessing  and  the  pride  of  England.  But  in 
one  respect  he  totally  fails  to  come  up  to  the  grandeur  of 
the  modern  conception;  for,  as  said  before,  he  thinks 
of  arrangements  for  a  city  and  not  for  a  nation,  and 
he  has  no  idea  of  those  representative  institutions  by 
which  political  freedom  of  action  on  a  large  scale  may 
be  provided.  As  his  views  for  each  State  were  limited, 
so  also  he  did  not  take  sufficient  thought  of  inter- 
national relations.  For  one  moment  he  seemed  to  have 
caught  a  glimpse  of  possibilities  which  he  might  have 
followed  out  into  important  conclusions;  for  he  says 
("Pol."  Vn.  vii.  3)  that  "owing  to  the  happy  moder- 
ation of  the  climate  of  Greece,  the  Hellenic  race  pos- 
sess a  combination  of  the  best  qualities  which  fall  to 


AlUSTOTLK  113 

the  lot  of  the  human  species,  being  both  high-spirited 
and  intellectual;  and  if  they  could  all  together  form  one 
political  State,  the  Greeks  might  govern  the  world." 
He  drops  out  this  isolated  thought,  but  does  not  pursue 
it.  At  the  moment  when  he  was  writing,  the  Hellenic 
race  was  in  tlie  utmost  danger;  it  was,  in  fact,  doomed 
to  fall  from  its  high  position  into  political  extinc- 
tion, and  all  for  the  want  of  "  solidarity,"  all  from  these 
jealousies  which  kept  each  Greek  city  apart  from  the 
rest.  Aristotle's  peculiar  relations  to  the  court  of  Mace- 
don  may  have  hindered  him  from  freely  entering  upon 
this  subject,  or  may  have  biased  his  views;  but  the  real 
fact  seems  rather  to  have  been  that,  while  he  was  a  great 
philosopher,  he  was  no  statesman,  and  that,  absorbed 
in  the  researches  of  science  and  in  the  dreams  of  an 
ideal  State,  he  did  not  see  the  actual  dangers  of  his  coun- 
try so  clearly  as  his  patriotic  contemporary  Demosthenes 
saw  them.  His  contribution  to  politics  was  abstract 
and  scientific,  and  as  such  remains  valid  for  all  time; 
his  analysis  of  the  pathology  (so  to  speak)  of  oligarchies 
and  democracies  was  found  to  be  often  strikingly  veri- 
fied in  the  history  of  the  Italian  republics.  And  how- 
ever much  the  views  of  Aristotle  fall  short  of  the  re- 
quirements of  modern  times,  the  "Politics"  will  always 
form  a  valuable  study  for  one  who  is  likely  to  take  part 
in  the  public  affairs  of  his  country. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY  OP  ARISTOTLE. 

Aristotle  has  now  done  with  Practical  and  Con- 
structive Science.*    He  turns  from  Man  with  his  dis- 

*  See  above,  p.  33. 


114  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

putations,  reasonings,  oratory,  poetry,  moral  and  social 
life,  to  the  subjects  of  Speculative  Science — to  Nature, 
the  Universe,  and  God.  In  glancing  at  the  series  of 
great  treatises  in  which  the  results  of  his  thoughts  and 
researches  upon  these  subjects  are  embodied,  it  will  be 
convenient  to  divide  them  under  the  three  heads  of  Nat- 
ural Philosophy,  Biology,  and  Metaphysics.  First,  then, 
ihe  "Physical  Discourse,"  the  treatise  "On  the  Heav- 
ens," that  "On  Generation  and  Destruction,"  and  the 
"Meteorologies,"  form  together  a  distinct  whole,*  and 
contain  the  Natural  Philosophy  of  Aristotle,  of  which 
let  us  now  notice  some  of  the  salient  points,  leaving  his 
Biology  and  Metaphysics  to  form  the  subject  of  future 
chapters. 

Natural  Philosophy,  as  conceived  by  Aristotle,  was 
far  more  metaphysical  than  the  science  which  i^  called 
by  that  name  in  the  present  day — a  science  based  on 
mathematics,  and  starting,  we  might  perhaps  say,  with 
the  doctrines  of  Newton's  "  Principia,"  anything  which 
lies  beyond  these  doctrines  being  taken  for  granted. 
But  in  Aristotle's  Natural  Philosophy  nothing  is  taken 
for  granted.  He  commences  by  inquiring  into  the  na- 
ture of  "Existence;"  and  sets  himself  to  answer  some 
of  the  puzzles  with  which  his  predecessors,  the  philoso- 
phers of  Greece,  had  racked  their  own  and  other  peo- 
ple's brains.  They  had  said,  "  How  is  it  possible  for 
anything  to  come  into  existence?  Out  of  what  can  it 
come?  It  must  come  either  out  of  the  existent  or  the 
non-existent.  But  it  cannot  come  out  of  the  existent, 
else  it  would  have  existed  already;  nor  can  it  come  out 
of   the  non-existent,  for  out  of  nothing  nothing  can 


*  On  the  connection  of  these  works  see  some  general  remarks 
above,  p.  41. 


ARISTOTLE.  115 

come."  Aristotle  solves  this  dilemma  ("  Phys."  I.  viii.) 
by  introducing  what  now  seems  a  simple  enough  dis- 
tinction— that  between  the  "  possible"  and  the  "actual;" 
things  come  into  existence,  that  is,  into  actuality,  out 
of  the  state  of  the  possible.  Now  the  possible,  or  po- 
tential, is  in  one  sense  non-existent,  as  it  is  nothing 
actual ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  mere  nonentity, 
as  it  is  by  hypothesis  a  possibility  of  existence.  All  this 
may  appear  to  be  a  mere  matter  of  words;  and  it  may 
be  asked  what  we  gain  by  having  the  words  "possibil- 
ity" and  "actuality"  added  to  our  vocabulary.  But, 
in  fact,  men  think  by  means  of  words;  and  if  a  new 
formula  can  clear  up  the  notions  connected  with  such 
often-occurring  terms  as  'is"  or  "became,"  it  is  a  gain, 
the  reality  of  which  is  shown  by  the  perplexities  to 
which  thinkers  had  been  reduced  to  for  the  want  of  it. 

Aristotle,  pursuing  his  general  reflections  about  Ex- 
istence, says  that  in  everything  that  exists  you  can  trace 
three  principles:  the  Matter  out  of  which  the  thing 
arose,  and  which  contained  the  possibility  of  its  exist- 
ence; the  Form  or  actual  nature  which  the  thing  pos- 
sesses; and  the  Fegation  or  Privation  of  all  other  na- 
tures. That  is  to  say — a  thing  is  what  it  is  by  not  being 
what  it  is  not.  And  thus  all  existence  has  a  negative, 
as  well  as  a  positive,  side  ("  Phys."  I.  ix.).  These  re- 
marks form  a  metaphysical  basis  to  Natural  Philosophy. 

In  the  second  book  of  his  "Physical  Discourse," 
Aristotle  quits  the  region  of  pure  abstractions,  and 
states,  in  interesting  terms,  his  views  of  "Nature."  He 
speaks  of  "  Nature"  as  "a  principle  of  motion  and  rest 
essentially  inherent  in  things,  whether  that  motion  be 
locomotion,  increase,  decay,  or  alteration."  "It  is  ab- 
surd to  try  to  prove  the  existence  of  Nature;  its  exist- 
is  self-evident."    Nature  may  be  said  in  one  way 


116  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

to  be  the  simplest  substratum  of  matter  in  things  pos- 
sessing their  own  principle  of  motion  and  change;  in 
another  way  it  may  be  called  the  form  or  hiw  of  such 
things."  In  other  words,  Nature  is  both  matter  or  po- 
tentiality, and  form  or  actuality;  both  the  simple  ele- 
ments of  a  thing  and  its  existence  in  perfection.  It  is 
also  the  transition  from  the  one  to  the  other.  * '  Nature, " 
says  Aristotle,  "  spoken  of  as  the  creation  of  anything, 
is  the  path  to  nature." 

Paley's  "Natural  Theology"  opens  with  the  cele- 
brated argument  which  compares  the  world  to  a  watch. 
"If  one  were  to  find  a  watch,"  says  Paley,  "he  would 
surely  conclude  that  there  must  have  been  a  watch- 
maker; and  so  from  the  marks  of  design  in  creation, 
which  are  like  the  adaptations  to  special  purposes  of 
each  part  in  the  watch,  we  must  conclude  that  an  in- 
telligent Creator  made  the  world."  Aristotle,  quite  as 
strongly  as  Paley,  admits  the  marks  of  design  in  nature. 
Hcsays("  [*hys."ll.  viii.  14)  :"  The  adaptation  of  means 
to  ends  which  we  see  in  the  procedure  of  the  animals 
makes  some  men  doubt  whether  the  spider,  for  instance, 
and  the  ant,  do  not  work  by  the  light  of  reason  or  an 
analogous  faculty.  In  plants,  moreover,  manifest  traces 
of  a  fit  and  wisely-planned  organization  appear.  The 
swallow  makes  its  nest  and  the  spider  its  web  by  na- 
ture, and  yet  with  a  design  and  an  end;  and  the  roots 
of  the  plant  grow  downward  for  the  sake  of  providing 
it  with  nourishment  in  the  best  way.  It  is  plain,  then, 
that  the  origin  of  natural  things  must  be  attributed  to 
design."  He  repudiates  the  notion  that  "the  heavens 
and  the  divinest  of  visible  things"  ("  Phys."  II.  iv.  6)  can 
have  been  the  result  of  the  workings  of  blind  chance. 
Nor  will  he  accept  the  theory  of  Empedocles  (which 
was  like  tlie  Darwinian  theory  of  Natural  Selection  in 


ARISTOTLE.  117 

its  extremest  form)  that  blind  chance  hit  upon  the  pro 
duction  of  life,  and  tliat  whole  races  of  monsters  and 
imperfect  beings  perished  before  the  moment  came  when 
— by  mere  accident  and  coincidence — a  creature  was  at- 
tained sufficiently  perfect  to  survive  ('*  Phys."II.  viii.  4). 
So  far  from  chance  having  been  the  chief  force  in  pro- 
ducing the  framework  of  the  Universe,  Aristotle  con- 
siders chance  to  be  a  mere  exception,  a  mere  irregular- 
ity, thwarting  the  reason  and  the  wisdom  which  guides, 
and  has  ever  guided,  the  operations  of  nature. 

But,  while  utterly  denying  what  Mr.  Darwin  would 
seem  to  point  to — that  Reason  is  a  result  of  the  func- 
tions of  matter,  and  is  a  comparatively  recent  develop- 
ment in  the  history  of  this  globe — Aristotle  would 
equally  deny  the  thesis  of  Paley,  that  Reason,  in  the 
form  of  an  intelligent  Creator,  existed  separately  before 
this  world,  and  constructed  the  world  as  a  watch-maker 
constructs  a  watch.  While  he  considered  Reason  to 
have  existed  from  all  eternity,  he  thought  that  the  Uni- 
verse, iTervaded  in  all  its  parts  by  Reason,  had  also  ex- 
isted from  all  eternity.  Thus  all  idea  of  the  world  hav- 
ing been  created  was  quite  eliminated  from  the  thoughts 
of  Aristotle.  He  said  the  world  inust  have  been  eter- 
nal, for  everything  which  is  created,  or  comes  into  ex- 
istence, comes  into  the  "  actual  "  out  of  the  "possible." 
The  egg  and  the  seed  are  instances  of  the  "possible," 
the  fowl  and  the  flower  of  the  "actual."  But  there 
must  always  have  been  a  fowl  before  there  was  an  Qgg, 
and  a  flower  before  there  was  a  seed.  Therefore  the 
actual  must  always  have  been  first;  and  if  this  be  the 
case  with  particular  classes  of  things,  we  cannot  con- 
ceive that  the  whole  world  was  ever  non-existent,  and 
a  mere  possibility  waiting  to  be  called  into  existence 
("Metaphys."  VIII.  viii.). 


118  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY, 

Philosophers  always  acknowledge  the  diflSculty  which 
there  is  in  conceiving  a  beginning.  Aristotle  escapes 
this  difficulty  by  asserting  that  the  Universe  has  existed 
eternally  the  same  as  it  appears  to  us  now.  He  says 
that  there  is  only  one  Cosmos  or  Universe,  and  that  out- 
side of  this  there  is  "  neither  space,  nor  vacuum,  nor 
time."  One  would  expect  these  words  to  mean  that 
the  Universe  extends  to  infinity  in  all  directions;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  Aristotle  attributes  a  definite  circular 
shape  to  the  "  outside"  of  the  Universe,  which  would  be 
incompatible  with  the  idea  of  infinite  extension.  In 
fact,  his  arguments  to  prove  the  above  untenable  posi- 
tion are  curious  abstract  quibbles,  which  may  be  quoted 
to  show  how  oddly  a  philosopher  of  the  4th  century 
B.C.  could  reason  on  the  physical  construction  of  the 
Universe.  He  says  ("On  the  Heavens,"  I.  ix.)  that 
there  can  be  neither  space  nor  vacuum  outside  the  cir- 
cumference of  the  Cosmos,  for,  if  there  were,  then  body 
might  be  placed  therein ;  but  this  is  impossible,  because 
every  physical  body  is  naturally  endowed  with  one  of 
three  motions :  it  is  either  naturally  centripetal,  or  nat- 
urally centrifugal,  or  naturally  revolving  round  the 
earth.  Now  each  of  these  three  kinds  of  body  has  its 
natural  place  within  the  Universe;  the  stone  being  cen- 
tripetal has  its  natural  place  on  or  in  the  earth ;  fire  be- 
ing centrifugal  has  its  natural  place  above  the  air;  the 
stars  which  revolve  have  their  natural  place  in  the  re- 
volving Heaven.  Thus  there  is  no  kind  of  body  which 
can  naturally  exist  outside  the  Universe,  and  therefore 
there  can  be  no  space,  for  space  is  that  in  which  bodies 
exist!  That  there  is  no  Time  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
Universe,  Aristotle  proves  by  the  more  legitimate  argu- 
ment that  "  if  there  is  no  motion  there  can  be  no  Time, 
since  Time  is  the  measure  of  motion."    But  his  concep 


ARISTOTLE.  119 

tion  of  the  "natural"  motions  inherent  in  different 
classes  of  bodies,  and  his  appeal  to  his  own  precon- 
ceived ideas  of  ' '  nature"  to  prove  what  exists,  or  does 
not  exist,  outside  the  circumference  of  Heaven,  are  veiy 
characteristic. 

Time  and  Space,  then,  according  to  Aristotle,  end 
with  the  circumference  of  Heaven,  though  it  is  difficult 
to  understand  how  space  can  be  conceived  to  come  to 
an  end  at  any  particular  point.  But  the  Stagirite  here 
becomes  mystical,  for  he  says  that  "the  things  out- 
side," existing  in  neither  space  nor  time,  enjoy  for  all 
eternity  a  perfect  life  of  absolute  joy  and  peace  ("Heav- 
ens," I.  ix.).  This  is  the  region  of  the  divine,  in  which 
there  is  life  and  consciousness,  though  perhaps  no  per 
sonality;  it  is  increate,  immutable,  and  indestructi- 
ble. 

Descending  from  this  region — if  that  can  be  called 
region  which  is  out  of  space  altogether — we  come  in 
the  Aristotelian  system  to  the  "First  Heaven,"  the 
place  of  tke  fixed  stars,  which  ever  revolves  with  great 
velocity  from  the  left  to  the  right.  In  a  lower  sphere, 
revolving  in  the  contrary  direction,  are  the  sun,  moon, 
and  planets ;  and  we  are  told  that  we  must  not  suppose 
that  either  stars  or  planets  are  composed  of  fire.  Their 
substance  is  ether,  that  fifth  element,  or  quinta  essentia, 
which  enters  also  into  the  composition  of  the  human 
soul.  They  only  seem  bright,  like  fire,  because  the 
friction  caused  by  the  rapidity  with  which  they  are 
carried  round  makes  them  red-hot.  The  reason  why 
the  stars  twinkle,  but  the  planets  do  not,  is  merely  that 
the  former  are  so  far  off  that  our  sight  reaches  them  in 
a  weak  and  trembling  condition;  hence  their  light 
seems  to  us  to  quiver,  while  really  it  is  our  eyesight 
which  is  quivering.    Sun,  moon,  and  stars  alike  are 


120  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

living  beings,  unwearied,  and  in  the  enjo3'ment  of  per- 
fect liappiness. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  if  an  ancient  Greek 
temple  be  compared  with  a  Gothic  cathedral,  tlie  one 
suggests  the  idea  of  the  finite,  tlie  other  of  the  infinite. 
The  same  thing  might  be  said  of  Aristotle's  Cosmology 
when  compared  with  the  views  of  modern  science. 
Aristotle  figured  to  himself  a  perfectly  limited  universe, 
with  the  earth  in  the  center,  and  the  fixed  stars  all 
round  the  circumference.  In  a  circle,  or  globe,  it  may 
be  questioned  which  is  the  place  of  honor — the  center 
or  the  circumference.  The  Pythagoreans,  accordingly, 
after  the  abstract  method  of  those  times,  declared  that 
the  center  must  be  the  most  honorable  position,  and 
that,  as  the  element  fire  is  more  honorable  than  the 
element  earth,  the  center  of  the  Universe  must  be 
occupied  by  some  Central  Fire,  and  that  the  earth  must 
revolve  round  this  like  the  other  stars.  Aristotle,  uncon- 
scious how  much  nearer  to  the  truth  this  guess  was  than 
his  own,  laughs  at  it  as,  the  production  of  men  "who 
try  to  square  facts  to  their  own  fancies,  and  who  wish 
to  have  a  share  in  the  arrangement  of  the  Universe." 
He  also  repudiates  ("  Heavens,"  II.  xiv.  1)  the  theory  of 
Plato  that  the  earth  is  packed  round  the  axis  of  the 
entire  Universe  and  revolves  with  it,  thus  causing  day 
and  night.*  He  maintains  that  the  earth  is  the  motion- 
less center,  but  the  least  honorable  member,  of  the  Uni- 
verse, the  all-embracing  circumference  being  the  most 
noble,  and  the  heavenly  bodies  having  a  dignity  in 
inverse  ratio  to  their  approach  towards  the  center.  The 
guesses,  or  intuitions,  of  the  ancient  Greeks  in  Aristotle's 

*  There  is  some  doubt  as  to  what  Plato's  theory  actually 
was.  See  "  Minor  Works  of  George  Grote,"  vol.  i.  pp.  239-275, 
and  Professor  Jowett's  Introduction  to  the  "  Timaeus"  of  Plato. 


ARISTOTLE.  121 

time,  or  soon  afterwards,  liit  upon  something  very  like 
an  anticipation  of  the  Copernican  system.  And  this 
was  especially  the  case  with  Arislarchus  of  Samos,  who 
announced  the  double  movement  of  the  earth,  round  its 
own  axis  and  round  the  sun.  But  Aristotle  certain- 
ly contributed  nothing  towards  the  adoption  of  such 
ideas.  He  unfortunately  committed  himself,  on  fancied 
grounds  of  symmetry,  to  an  opposite  view. 

Aristotle  argued  that  if  the  earth  were  to  move  it 
could  only  do  so  "unnaturally,"  by  the  application  of 
external  force  in  contradiction  to  its  own  natural  ten- 
dency to  rest  round  the  center,  and  that  no  such  forced 
movement  could  be  kept  up  forever,  whereas  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  Cosmos  must  be  for  all  eternity. 
Therefore  the  earth  must  be  at  rest!  As  to  its  shape. 
Aristotle  was  more  correct:  he  proved  it  to  be  spherical 
— (1)  by  the  consideration  that  all  heavy  bodies  are  by 
nature  alway  tending  to  the  center,  and  that  this  pro- 
cess must  result  in  the  production  of  a  spherical  mass; 
(2)  by  the  fact  that  the  earth's  shadow^  cast  on  the  moon 
ill  an  ecTipse  is  circular.  He  considered  the  bulk  of  the 
earth  to  be  small  when  compared  with  that  of  "  the 
other  stars;"  he  accepts  the  calculations  of  the  geome- 
ters of  his  time  that  its  circumference  was  400,000 
stades;  and  he  says  that  "we  must  not  treat  with  in- 
credulity the  opinion  of  those  who  say  that  the  regions 
near  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  (or  Straits  of  Gibraltar) 
join  on  to  India,  and  that  the  ocean  to  the  east  of 
India  and  that  to  the  west  of  Europe  arc  one  and  the 
same."  In  support  of  this  proposition  he  adduces  the 
fact  that  elephants  are  to  be  found  on  each  side,  i.e.,  in 
India  and  in  Africa  ("Heavens,"  II.  xiv.  15).  The 
passage  of  Aristotle  here  quoted  had  a  large  share  in 
inflaming  the  imagination   of   Christopher    Columbus, 


122  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

and  in  sending  him  fortli  from  the  coasts  of  Spain  in 
searcli  of  tlie  coasts  of  India;  and  it  was  the  cause  of 
the  islands  of  Central  America  being  named  the  "  West 
Indies,"  and  the  aborigines  of  North  America  being 
called  "Red  Indians."  As  an  approximative  guess  at 
the  size  and  figure  of  the  earth,  tlie  passage  in  question 
was  not  a  bad  one,  considering  the  time  when  it  was 
written ;  but  curiously  enough  it  contains  two  errors, 
the  first  of  which  would  imply  the  earth  to  be  a  great 
deal  larger,  and  the  second  a  great  deal  smaller,  than 
it  really  is.  The  mean  geographical  stade  of  the  Greeks 
is  computed  at  168  yards  1  foot  and  6  inches,  and  thus 
if  400,000  stades  be  assigned  to  the  circumference  of 
the  earth,  we  get  a  measurement  of  above  38,000  miles, 
whereas  the  latest  calculations  would  only  give  about 
24,857  miles  for  a  mean  circumference  of  the  eaith. 
Thus  evidently  the  geometers  of  the  time  of  Aristotle 
were  too  liberal  in  their  ideas  of  the  earth's  size.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  those  who  identified  the  Atlantic 
with  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  brought  India  opposite  to 
Spain,  had  evidently  too  contracted  a  notion  of  the  con- 
tents of  our  globe. 

Owing  to  the  absence  of  astronomical  instraments, 
and  the  generally  infantile  condition  of  physical  sci- 
ence in  the  4th  century  B.C.,  it  was  only  natural  that 
the  a  priori  metliod,  or  guessing,  should  greatly  pre- 
dominate in  the  cosmical  theories  of  that  time.  But 
Aristotle's  strength  did  not  lie  in  his  imagination.  In 
this  faculty  he  was  inferior  %o  other  philosophers  whom 
in  analytical  power  he  far  surpassed.  Thus  Alexander 
von  Htimboldt  says  of  him  ("  Cosmos,"  vol.  i.  note  48), 
"the  great  influence  which  the  writings  of  Aristotle 
exercised  on  the  whole  of  the  Middle  Ages,  renders  il.  a 
cause  of  extreme  regret  that  he  should  have  been  so  op- 


AHISTOrLE.  123 

posed  to  the  grander  and  juster  views  of  the  fabric  of 
the  universe  entertained  by  the  more  ancient  Pythago- 
rean school."  There  was,  in  fact,  a  want  of  sublimity 
in  the  fancy  of  Aristotle,  and  it  so  happened  that 
he  sometimes  contemptuously  rejected  hypotheses 
which  were  not  only  more  beautiful,  but  more  true, 
than  his  own.  We  have  seen  that  this  was  the  case 
Willi  regard  to  the  earth's  position  in  the  cosmical 
system.  And  the  same  thing  occurred  as  to  the  nature 
of  comets.  The  Pythagoreans  had  declared  comets  to  be 
"planets  of  long  revolution;"  but  Aristotle,  rejecting 
this  supposition,  affirmed  them  to  be  transient  meteors 
of  our  atmosphere,  formed  out  of  luminous  or  incan- 
descent matter  which  had  been  thrown  off  by  the  stars. 
And  to  explain  the  reason  why  comets  are  so  rare,  he 
said  that  the  matter  out  of  which  they  are  composed 
is  constantly  used  up  in  forming  the  Milky  Way. 
("Meteorol."  I.  viii.)  "The  nebulous  belt,  then,  which 
tiaverses  the  vault  of  the  heavens,  is  regarded  by  the 
Stagirite  as  an  immense  comet  incessantly  reproducing 
itself." 

Clearly,  Aristotle's  contribution  to  Natural  Philosophy 
did  not  consist  in  suggesting  or  leading  the  way  to  true 
views  as  to  the  nature  and  arrangement  of  the  heavenly 
bodies.  He  not  only  was  in  advance  of  his  age  in 
this  respect,  but  was  even  behind  it,  in  so  far  as  he 
refused  to  adopt  theories,  which  have  since  turned  out 
to  have  been  anticipations  of  the  results  of  modern 
science.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  those  theories  were  incapable  of  verification  at  the 
time,  and  had  no  force  in  themselves  to  command  the 
attention  of  the  world.  They  were  like  the  "false 
dawn"  in  tropical  countries,  which  appears  for  a  few 
minutes  and  then  fades  awav,  allowing  the  darkness 


124  THE  ELZEVIR   LIBHARY. 

again  to  reign  supreme,  till  the  true  sunrise  takes  place. 
Unconvinced  by  tlie  speculations  of  the  Pythagorean 
school  and  of  Aristarclms  of  Samos,  the  great  Alex- 
andiian  astronomer,  Ptolemy,  in  the  second  century 
of  our  era,  reafHrmed  the  Aristotelian  views  as  to  the 
spherical  form  and  motion  of  the  heavens,  as  to  the 
earth's  posiiion  in  the  centre  of  the  heavens,  and  as  to 
its  being  do.void  of  any  motion  of  translation.  And  . 
the  Ptolemaic  system  satisfied  men's  minds  until,  with 
Copernicus  and  Galileo,  modern  astronomy  began. 

We  must  allow  that  Aristotle's  cosmical  ideas  were 
erroneous  and  misleading.  Still  we  must  take  them  as 
constituting  a  mere  fraction  of  his  encyclopaedia  of  phi- 
losophy, and  we  must  recollect  that  they  are  put  forth 
in  works  which  laid  out  and  constituted  new  sciences. 
This  was  the  Stagirite's  achievement, — the  clear  analytic 
separation  of  the  different  sciences,  and  the  statement, 
in  outline  at  all  events,  of  the  questions  which  each 
science  had  »to  answer.  Aristotle  generally  attempted 
to  furnish  his  own  answer  to  these  questions,  and  often 
gave  wrong  answers;  yet  to  have  posited  the  questions 
at  all  was  a  great  matter,  and  cleared  the  way  for  the 
thoughts  of  subsequent  generations.  There  is  no  one 
to  whose  work  the  saying  is  more  appropriate  than  to 
that  of  the  Stagirite — prudenft  q^icestio  dimidium  scien- 
iiceest — "It  is  half-way  to  knowledge  when  j^ou  know 
what  you  have  to  inquire." 

The  leading  questions  started  in  the  Natural  Phi- 
losophy of  Aristotle  are  as  to  the  nature  of  causation, 
time,  space,  and  motion.  On  the  subject  of  motion  lie 
went  astray  by  taking  up  the  idea  that  celestial  and 
terrestrial  motions  were  different  in  kind  —  that  the 
licavenly  bodies  "naturally"  revolved,  while  bodies  on 
earth  had  each  a  natural  motion  in  them,  either  down- 


ARISTOTLE.  125 

ward  or  upward.  This  belief  in  the  absolute  levity  of 
certain  bodies — as,  for  instance,  fire — was,  of  course, 
a  mistake.  "Truth  is  the  daughter  of  Time;"  and 
a  few  of  the  great  discoveries  of  modern  ages,  which 
appear  so  simple,  though  they  were  so  hardly  and  so 
late  achieved, — such  as  the  Copernican  system,  and  the 
law  of  gravitation,  —  have  shattered  the  Cosmos  of 
Aristotle.  Still  it  required  at  least  fifteen  centuries 
before  anything  like  a  demonstration  was  brouglit 
against  the  reality  of  that  Cosmos  and  its  arrange- 
ments. Thus,  if  Aristotle  be  censured  for  the  incorrect- 
ness of  his  theories,  succeeding  generations  of  thinkers 
for  so  long  a  period  must  also  be  held  responsible  for 
their  undoubting  acceptance  of  them. 

Aristotle's  method  in  Pliysics,  as  in  most  other  sub- 
jects, consisted  in  this:  he  first  endeavored  to  state 
clearly  to  himself  what  was  the  problem  which  he  had 
before  him,  then  he  collected  all  the  solutions  of  that 
problem  which  had  been  proposed  by  his  predecessors, 
and  all  i^ppular  "sayings"  and  "notions"  in  regard  to 
it,  and  then  he  examined  existing  opinions  by  the  light 
of  such  facts  as  occurred  to  him,  or  which  had  been 
previously  collected  hy  him,  or  else  he  applied  logical 
reasonings  and  general  philosophical  considerations  in 
pronouncing  upon  the  validity  of  the  theories  of  others. 
A  main  part  of  the  process  consisted  in  starting  ingeni- 
ous difficulties  to  the  theories  in  question,  so  that  they 
seldom  came  through  the  ordeal  without  being  wholly 
exploded  or  considerably  modified.  The  residuum  left, 
or  the  new  result  arrived  at,  constituted  the  theory  of 
Aristotle.  Such  is  not  the  procedure  by  which  dis- 
coveries are  made,  knowledge  increased,  and  the  bound- 
aries of  science  extended,  in  modern  times.  But  after 
all,  it  was  not  a  bad  procedure  for  a  man  who  was 


126  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY, 

writing  an  encyclopsedia.  Aristotle  had  undertaken  to 
set  forth  every  department  of  knowledge  revised  and 
perfected,  so  far  as  possible,  by  the  aid  of  stores  of  in- 
formation and  thought  which  he  had  laid  up.  In  some 
departments  he  was  much  stronger  than  others:  in 
Politics,  Sociology,  Psychology,  and  Natural  History, 
he  had  a  far  better  array  of  facts  than  in  Astronomy 
and  Mechanics.  No  one  could  be  keener  than  he  was 
to  make  facts  the  basis  of  every  theory ;  but  he  was 
obliged  to  do  the  best  he  could  in  each  case  with  his 
materials.  He  set  out  all  that  was  known  or  believed 
on  each  subject,  and  added  to  the  knowledge  or  criti- 
cised the  beliefs  as  well  as  he  could.  The  real  aids  for 
the  advance  and  verification  of  science  which  exist  in 
modern  times — instruments,  such  as  the  telescope,  the 
microscope,  the  barometer,  the  thermometer,  the  spec- 
troscope, and  countless  others ;  the  knowledge  of  many 
great  laws  of  nature;  and  the  practice  of  accurately  ob- 
serving and  carefully  recording — were  all  wanting  in 
the  days  of  Aristotle.  Therefore  it  is  absurd  to  treat 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  modern  man  of  science,  with  a 
vicious  method.  It  may  be  called  a  mistake  that  he 
attempted  so  much;  still  what  he  accomplished  was 
wonderful  if  we  merely  regard  it  as  a  map  of  the 
Sciences  belonging  to  the  4th  century  B.C.,  full  of  his 
own  additions  and  improvements. 

There  is  one  great  science  of  modern  days  which 
Aristotle  failed  to  separate  off,  or  sketch  out,  or  in  any 
way  to  foreshadow — and  that  is  the  science  of  Chem- 
istry.    Some  erroneously  spell  this  word  ' '  chymistry"  as 


*  Aristotle,  in  treating  of  the  sense  of  Taste,  gives  an  enume- 
ration of  different  flavors,  and  then  says,  "  The  other  properties 
of  juices  form  a  proper  subject  for  inquiry  in  connection  with 


AliiSTUTLH'.  127 

and  as  though  it  had  been  known  to  the  Greeks.  But 
of  course  "chemistry"  comes  from  the  Semitic  word 
chem  (which  is  the  same  as  "Ham,"  the  son  of  Noah), 
meaning  "black,"  and  then  "Egyptian."  And  thus 
Chemistry  is  the  black  or  Egyptian  art,  having  talien 
its  rise  out  of  the  searches  made  by  the  Alchemists  to 
discover  the  philosopher's  stone.  Aristotle  had  no  no- 
tion whatever  of  the  rich  field  of  knowledge  and  power 
which  lay  in  the  analysis  of  substances.  He  had  no 
idea  of  the  composition  of  water  or  air.  The  crucible 
and  the  retort  had  never  been  worked  in  Athens;  the 
most  superficial  guesswork,  as  to  what  we  should  call 
tlie  chemical  properties  of  bodies,  contented  the  philos- 
ophers of  the  day.  Aristotle's  work  "On  Generation 
and  Corruption"  would  have  been  the  appropriate  place 
for  enunciating  some  of  the  laws  of  Chemistry;  but  he 
does  not  go  beyond  a  resolution  of  the  "  Four  Elements" 
into  the  ultimate  principles  of  the  Hot,  the  Cold,  the 
Wet,  and  the  Dry — the  first  pair  being  "active"  and  the 
second  "passive"  principles.  Hot  and  Wet,  we  are 
told,  i6rm  Air;  Hot  and  Dry,  Fire;  Cold  and  Wet,' 
Water;  Cold  and  Dry,  Earth.  From  these  principles 
Aristotle  deduces  the  generation  and  destruction  of  phy- 
sical bodies ;  but  on  the  details  of  a  theory  which  now 
seems  puerile  we  need  not  dwell. 

the  physiology  of  plants."  Thus  by  "juices"  he  means  vegeta- 
ble fluids,  to  be  treated  of  from  the  point  of  view  of  Botany  or 
of  Materia  Medica. 


128  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRAET. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  BIOLOGY  OP  ARISTOTLE. 

The  word  "Biology"  is  perhaps  only  about  fifty 
/■ears  old,  having  first  come  into  prominent  use  in  the 
"  Positive  Philosophy"  of  Auguste  Comte.  It  is  now 
quite  naturalized  in  the  vocabulary  of  science;  and  there 
is  an  article  on  "  Biology,"  by  Professor  Huxley,  in  the 
recently  published  edition  of  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Bri- 
tanuica,"  which  begins,  "The  Biological  sciences  are 
those  which  deal  with  the  phenomena  manifested  by 
living  matter."  Yet  still,  in  the  eyes  of  a  scholar  this 
modern  compound  is  an  unfortunate  one.  The  Greeks 
had  two  words  for  life,  Zoe  and  Bios:  the  former 
expressed  life  viewed  from  the  inside,  as  it  were — the 
vital  principle,  the  functions  of  life,  the  sense  of  living; 
the  latter  expressed  the  external  form  and  manner  of 
living,  such  as  a  man's  profession  or  career.  Zoe  was 
applicable  to  the  whole  animated  kingdom;  Bios  was 
restricted  to  man,  except  so  far  as,  half-metaphoricaliy, 
it  was  applied  to  the  habits  of  beasts  or  birds.  Thus 
Aristotle  divided  Zioe  into  the  species  '"vegetable," 
"animal,"  and  "human;"  but  Bios  into  the  species 
"life  of  pleasure,"  "life  of  ambition,"  and  "life  of 
thoug(it."  From  all  this,  it  will  be  seen  that  "  Biology" 
could  not  be  used  to  denote  a  science  of  the  phenomena 
of  living  matter  in  general,  without  a  sacrifice  of  ancient 
Greek  associations.  ''  Biolog}',"  in  short,  is  more  appro- 
priate to  express  what  we  generally  cull  Sociology ;  and, 
on  the  oiher  hand,  "  Zoology"  should  have  been  used 
to  express  wnai  Is  now  called  "  Biology."  But  the  fact 
was,  that  the  word  "  Zo5logy"  (derived  from  Zoon,  an 


ARISTOTLE.  ICO 

animal,  not  from  Zoe,  life)  bad  been  already  appro- 
priated as  a  name  for  natural  liistory.  Hence,  wilbout 
regard  to  classical  propriety,  tbe  word  "  Biology"  y^as 
forced  into  service  to  meet  a  want,  and  to  express,  what 
bad  never  been  expressed  before,  the  science  of  life  in 
all  its  manifestations  from  the  lowest  ascidian  up  to 
tbe  bigbest  development  of  bumanity,  so  far  as  that 
development  can  be  considered  to  be  a  natural  evolu- 
tion out  of  the  physiological  laws  of  life. 

Aristotle  bad  no  word  to  express  this  comprehensive 
idea,  but  assuredly  be  bad  tbe  idea  itself.  He  regards 
tbe  whole  of  nature  as  a  continuous  chain,  even  begin- 
ning with  ino''ganic  substances  and  passing  by  imper- 
ceptible gradations  on  to  organisms,  to  the  vegetable, 
and  to  the  zoophyte,  and  then  to  the  animal  and  the 
various  ranks  in  tbe  animal  kingdom,  and  lastly  to  man 
("Researches  about  Animals,"  VIH.  i.  4),  "whose  scul 
in  childhood,  you  migbt  say,  differs  not  from  tbe 
soul  of  the  lower  animals."  This  broad  comprehensive 
sweep  of  the  pbilosopliic  eye  through  tbe  realms  of 
nature,  this  finding  of  unity  in  such  endless  diversity, 
tbis  tracing  of  a  continuous  thread  throughout  tbe 
ascending  scale  of  life,  may  seem  quite  a  matter  of 
course  to  educated  persons  of  the  present  day.  But 
it  was  creditable  to  Aristotle  to  have  so  fully  arrived 
at  and  entertained  tbis  conception,  and  to  have  set  it 
forth  in  such  firmly-drawn  scientific  outlines.  Above 
all,  it  was  creditable  to  one  who,  though  born  of  the 
race  of  Esculapius  (sec  above,  p.  2),  bad  been  trained 
as  a  dialectician  and  an  orator,  and  had  devoted  so 
much  time  and  labor  to  tbe  sciences  connected  witb 
words  and  thoughts,  that  be  should  have  bad  the  foicj 
and  versatility  to  act  also  as  pioneer  into  a  totally 
different  range  of  inquiries,  and  to  collect  such  a  mass 


130  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

of  facts  wberewitli  to  fill  in  bis  general  sketch  of 
animated  nature.  It  is  probable  tbat  at  all  periods 
of  bis  life  bis  studies,  observations,  and  notes  upon 
matters  of  physical  and  natural  science,  ran  on  side 
by  side  with  bis  development  of  mental  and  moral 
philosophy.  Some  have  tliought  that  the  period  of  bis 
residence  at  the  Court  of  Macedonia,  when  acting  as 
tutor  to  Alexander,  afforded  him  peculiar  facilities,  iu 
the  shape  of  royal  menageries  and  hunters  and  fowlers 
under  his  command,  for  the  collection  of  materials  for 
bis  great  work  on  animals.  However  this  may  be, 
there  seems  no  sufficient  reason  for  taking  tbat  work 
itself  out  of  the  list  of  those  which  were  on  the  stocks 
And  more  or  less  completed  during  the  last  thirteen 
yejirs  of  bis  life. 

Aristotle's  biological  treatises,  as  briefly  specified 
Above  (p.  42),  consist  (1)  of  the  work  "On  the  Parts 
of  Animals,"  which  contains  a  distinction  still  valid 
iu  physiology  between  "tissues"  and  "organs,"  or  as 
^.ristotle  calls  them,  "homogeneous"  and  "unbomo- 
geneous"  substances.  He  traces  here,  according  to  his 
own  ideas,  the  ascent  from  the  inorganic  to  the  organic 
world:  out  of  heat,  cold,  wetness,  nnd  dryness  the  four 
elements  are  conjpounded;  out  of  the  four  elements  are 
formed  the  homogeneous  substances  or  tissues;  out  of 
these  are  formea  the  organs,  and  out  of  the  organs 
yhe  organized  being.  All  this  served  as  a  provisional 
.theory,  until  superseded  by  the  discoveries  of  chemistry. 
Aristotle  laid  it  aown  as  a  principle  of  method  ("Parts 
of  An,,"  I.  i.  4),  mat  all  which  was  common  to  the  vari- 
_jus  species  of  living  beings  should  be  discussed  before 
entering  upon  tncir  specific  differences.  Therefore  (2) 
rfbe  treatise  "On  the  Soul"  followed  next  in  order,  and 
traced  out  tiie  vital  principle   through    its    successive 


ARISTOTLE.  131 

Ascending  manifestations.  To  this  was  appended  (3) 
tl)e  *'  Pniva  Naturalia"  or  "  PLysiological  Tracts," 
whicli  dealt  witli  some  of  tlie  functions  of  living  crea- 
tures, whether  common  or  special,  such  as  sensation, 
memory,  dreaming,  and  also  with  the  following  pairs 
of  opposites:  waking  and  sleeping,  youth  and  old  age, 
inspiration  and  expiration,  life  and  death.  It  was 
added  that  there  is  another  pair  still  to  be  treated  of 
— namely,  health  and  sickness.  The  Stagirite,  as  was 
natural  from  his  family  traditions,  always  appears  to 
have  looked  forward  to  composing  a  philosophical  work 
on  Medicine.  Bu*  there  is  no  trace  of  this  ever  having 
been  achieved. 

The  4th  book  on  the  list  kept  still  to  generalities. 
This  was  the  short  treatise  "On  the  Locomotion  of 
Animals,"  which  showed  how  various  organs  in  the 
various  creatures  are  adapted  by  nature  for  this  pur- 
pose. Next  (5)  the  elaborate  treatise  "On  the  Genera- 
tion of  Animals"  worked  out  this  subject,  illustrating 
it  with  a  wonderfully  copious  collection  of  facts,  or 
supp(fsed  facts,  and  of  the  opinions  of  the  day;  and, 
lastly  (6),  the  great  treatise  entitled  "  Researches  about 
Animals,"  formed,  as  it  were,  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole,  by  giving  detailed  observations  upon  many  of 
the  various  living  creatures  which  are  the  products  of 
the  working  of  nature's  general  laws. 

Aristotle  justly  drew  a  distinction  between  the  way 
in  which  any  phenomenon  of  nature  would  be  con- 
sidered and  defined  by  a  dialectician  and  by  a  physicist. 
Thus  he  says  ("On  the  Soul,"  I.  i.  16):  "Anger  would 
be  defined  by  a  dialectician  to  be  '  a  desire  for  retalia- 
tion,' or  something  of  the  kind, — by  a  physical  philos- 
opher it  would  be  defined  as  'a  boiling  up  of  the  hot 
blood  about  the  heart.'  "     It  is  needless  to  say  that  the 


133  TIIJ-J  ELZEVIU  LimiAEY. 

Stagirite  himself  was  great  and  unrivalled  in  his  dialec- 
tical definitions, — those  definitions  which  depended  on 
grasping  the  essence  of  facts  which  are  patent  to  all 
ages  alike;  while  in  his  physical  definitions,  being 
destitute  of  facts  which  only  later  ages  have  brought  to 
light,  he  was  very  imperfect  and  occasionally  almost 
absurd.  As  a  specimen  of  this  we  may  mention  his 
account  of  the  vital  principle  or  life,  from  the  two 
points  of  view.  He  defines  the  vital  principle  ("Soul," 
II.  i.  C)  to  be  "the  essential  actuality  of  an  organism;" 
and  this  definition  has  met  with  high  praise  from 
modern  physiologists,  some  of  whom,  indeed,  appear 
simply  to  have  repeated  it  in  slightly  different  words. 
Thus  Duges  defines  life  as  "the  special  activity  of 
organized  bodies;"  and  Beclard  calls  it  "organization 
in  action."*  The  merit  of  Aristotle's  definition,  as 
coming  from  an  ancient  Greek  philosopher,  consists  in 
its  avoiding  the  view  which  would  have  been  natural 
in  those  times — namely,  that  life,  the  vital  principle  or 
the  physical  soul,  was  a  sep-.rate  entity,  dwelling  in  the 
body,  hospes  comesque  corporis,  "the  body's  guest  and 
friend,"  as  the  Emperor  Hadrian  called  it  in  his  dying 
verses.  Aristotle  said  that  life,  or  the  soul,  is  not  a 
chance  guest,  but  a  function ;  it  is  to  tlie  body  as  sight 
is  to  the  eye;  it  is  the  perfect  action  of  all  the  conditions 
of  the  bodily  organization.  Thus  the  Pythagoreans 
spoke  vainly  when  they  talked  of  the  "  transmigration 
of  souls,"  as  if  the  soul  of  a  man  could  migrate  into  the 
body  of  a  beast.  "You  might  as  well,"  said  Aristotle, 
"  speak  of  the  carpenter's  art  (which  is  the  result  of  the 


*  These  definitions  are  quoted  in  Bennett's  "  Text-book  of  Phy 
siology,"  p.  184.  See  also  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes's  "  Aristotle,  a  Page 
from  the  History  of  Science,"  p.  230. 


ARlHTOTLi:.  ]:}:J 

carpenter's  tools)  migrating  into  flutes,  which  are  llie 
tools  of  the  musician." 

So  much  for  liis  dialectical,  or  speculative,  views  of 
life.  The  following  are  some  of  his  opinions  in  detail 
on  the  same  subject,  from  a  physical  point  of  view, 
taken  from  the  "  Pli3'sioIogical  Tracts:" — The  primary 
condition  of  life  is  the  "natural  fire"  which  resides  in 
the  heart  of  each  living  creature.  Tliis  fire  may  be 
extinguished  by  contrary  forces,  or  smothered  by  ex- 
cess of  heat.  Respiration  is  the  process  of  cooling, 
which  prevents  the  smothering  of  the  vital  fire. 
Animals  require  two  things  for  existence — food  and 
cooling.  The  mouth  serves  for  both  purposes,  except 
in  the  case  of  fishes,*  who  get  their  cooling  not  by  air 
through  the  lungs,  but  by  water  through  the  gills. 
The  heart  is  placed  in  the  middle  region  of  the  body, 
'.\\y\  is  not  only  the  seat  of  life,  but  also  of  intelligence; 
it  is'thc  first  formed  of  all  the  parts.  The  brain  is  the 
coldest  and  wettest  part  of  the  body,  and  serves  con- 
jointly with  the  respiration  in  cooling  down  the  fire  of 
life.  Three  of  the  senses — sight,  sound,  and  smell — are 
located  in  the  brain;  touch  and  taste  reside  in  the 
heart,  which  also  contains  the  "common  sensorium." 
or  faculty  of  complex  perceptions,  such  as  figure,  size, 
motion,  and  number.  The  heart  makes  the  blood  and 
sends  it  out  by  the  "veins"  to  all  parts  of  the  body  (of 
course  Aristotle  was  unaware  of  the  return  of  the  blood 
to  llie  heart,  and  therefore  made  no  distinction  between 
veins  and  arteries).  Adequate  warmth  being  the  con- 
dition of  life,  the  inhabitants  of  hot  countries  are  longer- 

*  Aristotle  rejects  the  (true)  opinion  of  Anaxagoras  and  Di- 
ogenes that  fishes  get  air  out  of  the  water  which  they  draw 
through  their  gills,  and  that  they  are  suffocated  when  out  of  the 
wat^  because  the  air  comes  to  them  in  too  large  quantities. 


134  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBUART. 

lived  than  those  of  cold  countries;  and  men  are  longer- 
lived  than  women.  But  as  cooling  also  is  required, 
people  with  large  heads,  as  a  rule,  live  long. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  every  opinion 
above  mentioned  is  mistaken,  and  almost  every  state- 
ment of  fact  erroneous.  Aristotle,  however,  is  not 
solely  responsible  for  the  doctrines,  for  he  doubtless 
inherited  his  ideas  of  anatomy  and  physiology  from 
Hippocrates  and  his  father  Nicomachus,  and,  in  short, 
from  his  Greek  predecessors.  He  neither  did,  nor 
could,  create  the  whole  of  physiology  afresh,  as  he  cre- 
ated the  whole  science  of  logic.  This  shows  the  differ- 
ence between  a  science  that  is  simple  and  abstract,  be- 
ing dependent  on  a  few  laws  of  the  human  mind,  and  a 
science  which  is  infinitely  complex,  being  dependent  on 
facts  which  have  only  gradually  been  discovered  up  to 
a  certain  point  during  the  long  lapse  of  centuries,  with 
the  aid  of  instruments  which  were  unknown  to  the  an- 
cients. But  Aristotle  had  distinctly  the  idea  of  the  ad- 
vance of  physiology  and  medicine  by  means  of  the 
study  of  nature.  He  said,  "Physical  philosophy  leads 
to  medical  deductions,  the  best  doctors  seek  grounds 
for  their  art  in  nature."  Perhaps  from  this  sentence,  at 
all  events  from  the  notion  contained  in  it,  the  word 
"physician"  has  come  to  be  appropriated  in  modern 
times  by  the  practitioners  of  medicine. 

Unfortunately,  Aristotle  not  unfrequently  applied  di- 
alectical reasonings  to  questions  of  physiology  when  they 
were  quite  inappropriate.  For  instance,  arguing 
against  Plato's  theory  of  respiration— namely,  that 
breathing  results  from  the  impact  upon  us  of  the  ex- 
ternal atmosphere  following  upon  the  disturbance 
which  is  caused  by  the  expiration  of  warm  air— he  says 
that  this  would  imply  expiration  to  be  the  first  of  the 


AUISTOTLE,  135 

two  operations;  but  they  alternate,  and  expiration  is  tli« 
last,  therefvre  inspiration  must  be  ti»e  first!  Again,  lie 
mentions  tiie  opinion  of  those  who  said  that  the  senses 
correspond  witii  the  four  elements,  and  that  sight  is 
Hre,  trying  to  prove  it  by  the  fact  that  if  the  eye  be 
struck  sparks  are  seen,  Aristotle,  however,  says  that 
this  fact  is  to  be  explained  in  another  way :  the  iris  of 
the  eye  shines  like  a  phosphorescent  substance;  when 
the  eye  is  struck,  the  sudden  shock  of  the  blow  causes 
the  eye  as  an  object  of  vision  to  become  separate  from 
the  eye  as  the  organ  of  vision,  and  thus  the  eye  for  an 
instant  sees  itself!  Again,  iie  says  that  the  "white"  of 
the  eye  is  unctuous,  which  prevents  the  watery  vehicle 
that  conveys  the  sight  from  getting  frozen ;  the  eye  is 
le^  liable  to  freeze  than  any  part  of  the  body! 

Turning  from  these  curiosities  of  an  old-world  physi- 
ology, let  us  glance  at  the  natural  history  of  Aristotle. 
There  is  something  peculiar  and  Aristotelian  about  the 
very  terms  "Natural  History."  They  arise  out  of  a 
mistranslation  of  the  title  of  Aristotle's  work,  ' '  Histo- 
ries about  Animals,"  where  "Histories"  is  used  in  its 
primitive  sense  of  "investigations"  or  "researches." 
But  the  title  has  been  translated  Historia  Animalium, 
or  "  History  of  Animals,"  and  from  this  the  modern 
phrase  "  Natural  History"  has  doubtless  got  crystallized 
into  its  present  signification.  Looking  to  the  contents 
of  the  treatise  in  question,  we  perceive  that  to  a  great 
part  of  it  the  shorter  form  of  the  word  "  Histories" 
would  have  been  applicable,  as  consisting  rather  of 
"  Stories  about  Animals"  than  of  any  very  profound  in- 
vestigations with  regard  to  them.  It  is  probable  that  a 
large  proportion  of  what  is  here  recorded  came  to  Aris- 
totle orally;  and  that,  too,  not  from  savants,  but  frorn 
uneducated  classes  of  people  whose  occupations  had 


136  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBEART. 

put  them  in  the  way  of  observing  the  habits  of  certain 
species — such  people  as  fishermen,  sailors,  sponge-div- 
ers, fowlers,  hunters,  herdsmen,  bee-keepers,  and  the 
lilie.  We  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  get  pure  fact,  un- 
alloyed by  fancy,  from  informants  of  this  kind;  aad 
therefore  it  is  no  wonder  that  Aristotle,  in  compiling  the 
first  treatise  on  Natural  History  that  was  ever  written, 
and  in  collecting  his  materials  by  inquiry  made  at  first 
or  second  hand  from  the  working  classes,  should  have 
admitted  many  a  "yarn"  and  many  a  "  traveller's  tale" 
into  his  pages.  The  subject  was  too  new  to  admit  of 
his  beiug  able  by  instinctive  sagacity  to  reject  the  im- 
probable; a  judgment  of  that  kind  is  only  attained  by 
one  who  possesses  a  vast  stock  of  well-ascertained  facts, 
and  by  unconscious  analogy  can  argue  from  the  known 
to  the  unknown.  In  many  cases  Aristotle  shows  him- 
self almost  as  simple  as  old  Herodotus,  with  his  tales  of 
the  phoenix  and  other  marvels. 

The  following  may  be  quoted  as  one  instance  out  of 
many  of  the  naivete  of  the  Stagirite  ("Animals,"  IX. 
xlviii.):  "Among  marine  animals  there  are  many  in- 
stances recorded  of  the  mild,  gentle  disposition  of  the 
dolphin,  and  of  its  love  of  its  children,  and  its  affection, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Tarentum,  Caria,  and  other 
places.  It  is  said  that  when  a  dolphin  was  captured 
and  wounded  on  the  coast  of  Caria,  a  great  multitude  of 
dolphins  came  into  the.  harbor,  imtil  the  fishermen  let 
him  go,  when  they  all  went  away  together.  And  one 
large  dolphin  always  follows  the  little  ones  to  take  care 
of  them.  And  sometimes  a  shoal  of  large  and  small 
dolphins  has  been  seen  together,  and  two  of  these  hav- 
ing been  left  behind  have  appeared  soon  after  support- 
ing and  carrying  on  their  back  a  small  dead  dolphin 
that  was  on  the  point  of  sinking,  as  if  in  pity  for  it,  that 


ARISTOTLE.  137 

it  might  not  be  devoured  by  any  other  creature.  In- 
credible things  are  told  of  the  swiftness  of  the  dolphin, 
•which  appears  to  be  the  swiftest  of  all  animals  whether 
marine  or  terrestrial.  Tliej''  even  leap  over  the  masts  of 
large  ships.  This  is  especiall}''  the  case  when  they  pur- 
sue a  fish  for  the  sake  of  food;  for  if  it  flies  from  iheni 
they  will  pursue  it,  from  hunger,  into  the  depths  of  the 
sea.  And  when  they  have  to  return  from  a  great  depth 
they  hold  in  their  breath,  as  if  calculating  the  distance, 
and  gathering  themselves  up  they  shoot  forward  like  an 
arrow,  wishing  with  all  speed  to  accomplish  the  dis- 
tance to  their  breathing- place.  And  if  a  ship  happen  to 
be  in  the  way,  they  will  leap  over  its  masts.  The  males 
and  females  live  in  pairs  with  each  other.  Ther*»  is 
some  doubt  why  they  cast  themselves  on  shore,  for  H  is 
said  that  they  do  this  at  times  without  any  apparent 
reason." 

The  freshness  of  spirit  which  breathes  thro'igh 
this  passage  characterizes  the  whole  of  AristoMe's 
treatiscr  wiiich,  in  spite  of  its  sometimes  remind  mg 
us  of  the  "  showman"  of  modern  times,  has  excited  the 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  several  great  authorities. 
Cuvier  says,  "I  cannot  read  this  work  without  being 
ravished  with  astonishment.  Indeed  it  is  impossibl'i  to 
conceive  how  a  single  man  was  able  to  collect  and 
compare  the  multitude  of  particular  facts  implied  in 
the  numerous  rules  and  aphorisms  which  are  contained 
in  this  book."  Buffon,  De  Blainville,  St.  Hilaire,  and 
others,*  have  used  similar  terms  of  eulogy.  One  u'od- 
ern  zoologist,  Professor  Sundevall  of  Stockholm,  bns 
reckoned  up  the  number  of  species  with  which  Arist'>tle 
showed  himself  to  be  more  or  less  acquainted,  anf^  he 

♦  Quoted  by  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes  in  his  "  Aristotle,"  p.  270. 


138  THE  ELZEVIH   IJBIIAIIY. 

finds  them  to  amount  to  nearly  500, — the  total  number 
of  mammals  described  or  indicated  being  about  70;  of 
birds  150;  of  reptiles  20;  and  of  fishes  1 16— making 
altogether  356  species  of  vertebrate  animals.  Of  the  in- 
vertebrate classes  about  60  species  of  insects  and  arach- 
nids seem  to  have  been  known  to  Aristotie;  some  24 
crustaceans  and  annelids;  and  about  40  molluscs  and 
radiates.*  At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  Aristotle  had  no  idea  of  the  scientific  system  of 
classification  v^diich  appears  in  Professor  Sundovall's  list . 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  labored  much  at  the  arra.ige- 
ment  of  living  creatures  into  natural  orders;  indeed  he 
could  not  liave  succeeded  in  such  an  attempi,  for  want 
of  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  anatomy.  He  was  content 
with  the  superficial,  universally-received,  grouping  of 
animals,  as  walking,  creeping,  flying,  or  swimming;  as 
oviparous  or  viviparous;  aquatic  or  terrestrial;  and  the 
like.  His  book  contains  a  mass  of  materials,  but  with- 
out much  methodic  arrangement  or  trace  of  system.  It 
pointed  the  way,  however,  for  his  successors  to  a  s«ience 
of  zoology. 

The  facts  given  by  him  of  course  vary  extremely  in 
correctness  and  in  value.  In  his  account  of  sponges, 
for  instance,  Aristotle  is  thought  to  have  shown  sound 
information,  probably  derived  from  the  reports  of  the 
professional  divers.  But  his  statem.ents  about  bees, 
though  obtained,  as  he  tells  us,  from  bee-keepers,  and 
though  "  made  beautiful  forever"  in  the  charming  verses 
of  Virgil's  fourth  Georgic,  have  been  quite  overturned 
by  the  microscopic  discoveries  of  Reaumur,  Hunter, 
Huber,  Keys,  Vicat,  and  Dunbar.  On  one  cardii;;  1 
point  the  ancients  were  all  wrong:  they  did  not  undc- 

*  See  "The  Natural  History  Review"'  for  1864,  p.  494. 


ARISTOTLE.  139 

stand  the  sex  and  tlie  functions  of  either  the  queen-bee, 
the  worker,  or  the  drone. 

The  following  account  of  tlie  lion  is  considered  to  be 
fairly  correct  (**  An.,"  IX.  xliv,):  "When  feeding,  the 
lion  is  extremely  savage;  but  wlien  he  is  not  hungry 
and  is  full  fed,  he  is  quite  gentle.  He  is  not  either 
jealous  or  suspicious.  He  is  playful  and  afifectionate 
lownrds  those  animals  which  liave  been  brought  up  with 
him.  and  to  which  he  is  nccustomed.  When  hunted,  so 
long  as  he  is  in  view  he  never  flies  or  cowers;  and  if 
compelled  to  give  wny  by  the  number  of  his  hunters,  he 
retreats  leisurely,  at  a  Avail? ,  turning  himself  round  at 
short  intervals.  But  if  he  readies  a  covert  he  flies 
rapidly,  until  he  is  in  the  open  again,  and  then  he  again 
retreats  at  a  walk.  If  compelled  to  fly  when  on  the 
open  plains,  he  runs  at  full  stretch,  but  does  not  leap- 
His  manner  of  running  is  continuous,  like  that  of  a  dog 
at  full  stretch;  when  pursuing  his  prey,  however,  he 
throws  himself  upon  it  when  he  comes  within  reach.  It 
is  true  what  they  say  about  the  lion  being  very  mucli 
afraid  (rf  fire  (as  Homer  wrote,  "  the  blazing  fagots,  that 
his  courage  daunt"),  and  about  his  watching  and  singling 
out  for  attack  the  person  who  has  struck  him.  But 
wlien  any  one  misse.«  hitting  him  and  only  annoys  him, 
if  in  his  rush  he  succeeds  in  catching  that  person,  he 
does  not  liarm  liim  nor  wound  him  with  his  claws,  but 
shakes  and  frighicns  him  and  then  leaves  him.  Lions 
are  more  dispose! i  to  enter  towns  and  attack  mankind 
when  they  havj  grown  old,  because  old  age  renders 
them  unable  to  hunt,  and  because  of  the  decay  of  their 
teeth.  They  live  many  years;  and  in  tlie  case  of  a  lame 
lion  who  was  captured,  he  had  mai\y  of  his  teeth  worn 
down,  which  some  considered  a  sign  that  lions  live  long, 


140  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

for  this  could  not  have  happened  to  an  auimnl  who  was 
not  aged," 

The  "Researches  about  Animals,"  like  many  other  of 
Aristotle's  great  treatises,  appears  to  have  been  left  in 
an  unlinished  state.  The  tenth  book  scenes  merely  to 
be  a  sort  of  fragmentary  continuation  of  the  seventh 
book — both  treating  of  the  reproduction  of  the  human 
species.  In  the  ten  books  as  they  have  come  down  to 
us,  no  one  can  pretend  to  find  a  finished  whole.  It  is 
a  question,  therefore,  whether  the  work  wae  ever  pub- 
lished in  Aristotle's  lifetime,  or  whether  it  ever  got,  in 
its  present  form,  to  the  Alexandrian  Library.  In  the 
Alexandrian  Catalogue,  indeed,  there  is  mention  of 
a  work  entitled  "  Animals"  in  nine  books.  But  this 
may  have  been  a  set  of  excerpts  by  some  Peripatetic 
scholar;  we  cannot  tell  what  its  exact  relation  to  "  Our 
Aristotle"  may  have  been.  There  is  some  little  interest 
in  the  question,  on  account  of  the  influence  that  Aris- 
totle is  supposed  to  have  exercised  on  the  Septuagint 
version  of  the  Old  Testament,  which  was  begun  at 
Alexandria  285  B.C. — that  is  to  say,  just  after  Aristotle's 
MS8.  had  been  carried  off  to  Asia  Minor.  It  has  been 
conjectured  that  the  Septuagint  translators,  in  render- 
ing the  Hebrew  word  arnebeth,  or  "  hare,"  by  the  Greek 
word  dasypus  (hairy-foot),  instead  of  by  the  word  lagos, 
which  had  been  usual  in  earlier  classical  Greek,  were 
following  a  new  fashion  set  by  Aristotle  in  his  "Re- 
searches about  Animals,"  in  wiiich  work  "the  modern 
word  dasypus  had  almost  entirely  superseded  the 
older."*  And  it  is  added  that  "  there  was  an  even  yet 
more  striking  example  of  Aristotle's  influence  on  the 

*  Dean  Stanley's  "  Lectures  on  tlxe  History  of  the  Jewish 
Church,"  iii.  261. 


ARISTOTLE.  141 

passage"  (Leviticus,  xi.  6):  for  wlierens  iu  the  original 
Hebrew  text  the  liare  was  said  to  chew  the  cud,  the 
transhitors,  having  been  enlightened  by  the  natural  his- 
tory of  Aristotle,  "boldly  interpolated  the  word  not 
into  the  sacred  text."  The  facts  of  the  case  are — that 
Aristotle  uses  iagos  for  "hare"  indifferently  with,  and 
nearly  as  often  as,  danypus;  and  that  in  one  passage 
("  An.,"  III.  xxi.  1)  he  cursorily  contrasts  the  hare  with 
the  class  of  ruminants.  On  the  whole,  then,  it  seems 
most  natural  to  believe  that  the  Septuagint  translators 
used  the  word  dmypiis  because  it  had  become  the  fashion 
in  speaking  Greek  to  use  it,  and  that  Aristotle  himself 
had  obeyed  and  not  created  this  fashion.  With  regard 
to  the  other  point,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  translators 
may  have  seen  that  passage  of  Aristotle's  above  referred 
to;  at  all  events,  as  educated  men,  they  were  doubtless 
influenced  by  the  spread  of  the  study  of  natural  history, 
to  which  Aristotle,  who  had  died  only  thirty-seven  years 
before,  had  given  great  impetus. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  METAPHYSICS  OF  ARISTOTLE. 

Some  of  Aristotle's  earliest  attempts  at  writing  were 
on  a  strictly  metaphysical  subject,  when  he  attacked 
the  Platonic  doctrine  of  "Ideas."  He  doubtless  went 
on  from  this  beginning,  and  thought  of  metaphysical 
questions  all  his  life,  till  he  had  framed  for  himself  a 
more  or  less  complete  metaphysical  system,  traces  of 
which  show  themselves  iu  many  forms  of  expression 
and  leading  tlioughts  in  all  his  various  scientific  works. 
But  it  seems  as  if  he  had  put  off  to  the  last  the  under- 


142  THE   ELZEVni  LlBHAUr. 

taking  of  a  direct  aud  complete  exposition  of  that 
system;  and  heuce  arose  the  name  "Metaphysics,"' 
which  is  a  mere  title  signifying  "the  things  which 
follow  after  physics" — a  title  given  by  xiristotle's  school 
to  a  mass  of  papers  which  they  edited  after  his  death, 
aud  with  regard  to  whicli  tiiey  wished  to  indicate  that 
chronologically  these  papers  were  composed  after  the 
physical  treatises,  aud  also,  perhaps,  that  the  subject  of 
which  they  treated  was  above  *  aud  beyond  the  mere 
piiysical  conditions  of  things.  The  word  "Meta- 
physics," starting  from  this  fortuitous  origin,  has  come 
to  be  generally  understood  in  modern  times  as  denoting 
the  most  abstract  of  the  sciences — the  science  of  the 
forms  of  thought  and  the  forms  of  things,  the  science 
of  knowing  and  being,  the  science  that  answers  the 
questions.  How  can  we  know  anything?  how  can  any- 
thing exist?  Aristotle,  who,  of  course,  was  himself  un- 
conscious of  the  word  "Metaphysics,"  had  three  names 
which  he  used  indifferently  for  this  science.  Some- 
times he  called  it  simply  "  Wisdom;"  sometimes  "First 
Philosophy."  as  treating  of  primary  substances  and  the 
origin  of  things;  sometimes  "Theology,"  because  all 
things  have  their  root  in  the  divine  nature. 

We  have  already  had  some  specimens  of  Aristotle's 
metaphysical  doctrines,  put  forward  as  a  foundation 
for  natural  philosophy  (see  above,  p.  115).  In  his  bio- 
logical treatises,  also,  especially  in  that  "  On  the  Soul." 
Aristotle  does  not  confine  himself  to  the  physical  prin- 
ciple of  life  and  the  functions  of  the  animal  soul,  but 
enters  upon  the  mode  of  our  acquiring  knowledge,  ou 
perception,  memory,  reason,  and  the  relation  of  the  mind 

*  Thus  Shakespeare  speaks  of  ^'YaXe  a.n6.  metaphysical  aid," 
meaning  "supernatural." 


ARISTOTLE.  143 

to  external  objects— all  being  questions  wliich  encroacli 
upon  the  province  of  metaphysical  inquiry.  Tlie  sub 
stantive  treatise,  bearing  the  name  "  Metaphysics,"  has 
comedown  to  us  in  the  shape  of  a  posthumous  frag- 
ment, which  has  been  edited  and  eked  out  by  tlie  addi- 
tion of  other  papers.  The  whole  work,  as  it  stands, 
consists  of  thirteen  books.  Of  these,  seven  books  were 
written  by  Aristotle  as  the  setting  forth  of  his  ontology, 
or  science  of  existence;  Books  IX.,  XII.,  and  XIII. 
(on  the  Pythagorean  and  Platonic  systenxs  of  numbers 
and  ideas)  seem  to  have  been  intended  to  come  in  as 
part  of  the  same  treatise,  but  to  have  been  left  by  Aris- 
totle in  the  condition  of  mere  notes  or  materials ;  Book 
XI.  is  thought  to  be  a  separate,  though  very  valuable 
and  interesting  essay  on  the  nature  of  the  Deity;  while 
Books  IV.  and  X.,  and  the  appendix  to  Book  I.,  are 
un-Aristotelian,*  and  should  never  have  had  a  place 
assigned  to  them  in  the  "  Metaphysics." 

To  turn  to  this  work  from  the  "  Researches  about 
Animals"  is  like  turning  from  White's  "  Selborne"  to 
Kant's  "Critic  of  the  Pure  Reason."  Metaphysical 
questions  are  necessarily  abstruse,  dry,  and  difficult; 
but  the  attempt  has  sometimes  been  made — as,  for 
instance,  by  Plato,  Berkeley,  Ilume,  and  Ferrier — to 
discuss  them  in  clear,  pointed  language,  as  little  as 
possible  removed  from  the  ordinary  language  of  litera 
ture.  Aristotle,  on  the  other  hand,  at  all  events  in 
later  life,  aimed  only  at  scientific  precision;  and  h:s 
"Metaphysics"   is  the  forerunner    of    those    German 

*  Book  IV.  consists  of  a  list  of  philosophical  terms  and  their 
definitions,  perhaps  jotted  down  by  some  scholar.  Book  X.  is  a 
paraphrase  of  pai-t  of  the  "  Physical  Discourse."  The  appendix 
to  Book  I.  is  a  little  essay  on  First  Principles,  of  which  tradition 
attributes  the  authorship  to  one  Pasides. 


144  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

philosophies  \vhicli  from  bcgiuiiiiig  to  end  exiiibit  a 
jargon  of  tecliuical  phraseology.  In  another  respect, 
also,  Aristotle  here  sets  an  example  which  has  beeu 
much  followed  by  the  Germans  during  the  present 
century;  for  in  Book  I.  he  gives  a  "history  of  philos- 
ophy" from  Thales  down  to  himself.  This  is  a  very 
interesting  little  sketch,  disclosing  for  the  first  time 
the  fact  that  human  thought  has  a  history,  and  that 
there  was  a  time  when  the  word  "  cause,"  for  instance, 
had  never  been  heard,  and  pointing  to  the  conclusion 
that  every  abstract  word  which  we  use  is  the  result  of 
the  theories,  and  perhaps  the  controversies,  of  former 
ages.  Aristotle  traces  the  thoughts  of  successive  Gre- 
cian thinkers,  advancing  under  a  law,  while  each  stage 
at  which  they  arrived  forced  them  on  to  the  next  (see 
"Met.,"  I.  iii.  11),  from  about  600  B.C.  to  about  330 
B.C.  And  this  task  had  never  been  again  so  well 
accomplished  until  Hegel  gave  his  first  set  of  lectures 
on  the  History  of  Philosophy,  at  Jena,  in  1805. 
Hegel  was  followed  in  the  same  field  by  Brandis, 
Schwegler,  Ueberweg,  Cousin,  Renouvier,  Ferrier, 
Zeller,  and  many  others,  to  whose  works  we  must 
refer  for  information,  as  to  the  Greek  philosophers. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  Aristotle's  method  of  procedure  is 
to  take  his  own  doctrine  of  the  Four  Causes  (see  above, 
p.  64),  and  to  show  how  at  first  philosophers  only  got 
hold  of  the  idea  of  a  Material  Cause,  and  that  after- 
wards they  gradually  arrived  at  the  idea  of  Motive 
Power,  Form,  and  End,  or  Final  Cause.  On  the 
whole^  his  brief  and  masterly  sketch,  while  full  of 
points  of  light,  is  open  to  the  charge  of  not  doing 
sufficient  justice  to  the  views  of  his  predecessors. 
Among  them  all,  he  seems  most  highly  to  appreciate 
Anaxagoras,  of  whom  he  says  that,,  by  introducing  the 


AKISTOTLB.  145 

iilea  of  Reason  among  the  causes  of  the  existence  of 
the  world,  he  was  "like  a  sober  man  beginning  to 
speak  amidst  a  party  of  drunkards."  Aristotle  repeats 
here  his  old  polemic  against  what  he  calls  the  system 
of  Plato,  though  it  is  doubtful  whether  Plato  would 
himself  have  acknowledged  it.  One  would  almost 
say  that  Aristotle  misstated  Plato  in  order  to  refute 
him. 

The  same  fate,  as  if  by  way  of  reprisal,  has  often  in 
modern  times  befallen  the  Stagirite,  who  has  repeatedly 
been  misstated,  and  then  censured  for  what  he  never 
had  maintained.  At  the  risk,  however,  of  committing 
fresh  injustices  of  this  sort,  we  will  endeavor  briefly  to 
sum  up  his  views  upon  some  of  the  greatest  questions 
which  have  occupied  modern  philosophers.  First,  then, 
we  may  ask  how  would  Aristotle  have  dealt  with  those 
problems  concerning  the  existence  of  Matter,  and  the 
reality  of  the  External  World,  which  have  been  a  "shib- 
boleth" in  the  philosophic  world  from  Bishop  Berkeley, 
through  the  days  of  Hume  and  the  Scotch  psychologists, 
down  to  Kant  and  Hegel  and  the  extreme  idealists  of 
Germany?  His  uiterances  on  this  subject  are  perhaps 
chiefly  to  be  found  in  the  third  book  of  his  treatise  "  On 
the  Soul,"  beginning  with  the  fourth  chapter.  On  turn- 
ing to  them  we  see  that  he  never  separates  existence 
from  knowledge.  "A  thing  in  actual  existence,"  he 
says,  "  is  identical  with  the  knowledge  of  that  thing." 
Again — "  The  possible  existence  of  a  thing  is  identical 
with  the  possibility  in  us  of  perceiving  or  knowing  it." 
Thus,  until  a  thing  is  perceived  or  known,  it  can  only 
be  said  to  have  a  potential  or  possible  existence.  And 
from  this  a  doctrine  very  similar  to  that  of  Ferrier  might 
be  deduced,  that  ' '  nothing  exists  except  plus  me" — thas 
is  to  say,  in  relation  to  some  mind  perceiving  it.     Arii* 


146  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

totle  indicates,  ^vithollt  fally  explaining,  his  doctrine  of 
tlie  relation  of  tlie  mind  to  external  things  in  a  cele- 
brated passage  ("  Soul,"  iii.  v.),  where  he  says  that  there 
are  two  kinds  of  Reason  in  the  soul— the  one  passive, 
the  other  constructive.  "  The  passive  Reason  becoim^ 
all  things  by  receiving  their  impress;  the  constructive 
Reason  creates  all  things,  just  as  light  brings  colors  into 
actual  existence,  while  without  light  they  would  have 
remamed  mere  possibilities."  Aristotle,  then,  appears 
to  be  removed  from  the  "  common  sense"  doctrine  of 
"  natural  realism,"  which  believes  that  the  world  would 
be  just  what  we  perceive  to  be,  even  if  there  were  no 
one  to  perceive  it;  for,  by  his  analogy,  the  mind  con- 
tributes as  much  to  the  existence  of  things  as  light  does 
to  color;  and  he  is  equally  removed  from  that  extreme 
idealism  which  would  represent  things  to  be  merely  the 
thoughts  of  a  mind,  for  he  evidently  considers  that 
there  is  a  "  not-me" — a  factor  in  all  existence  and 
knowledge — which  is  outside  of  the  mind,  and  which 
may  be  taken  to  be  symbolized  by  all  the  constituents 
of  color,  except  light:  the  mind,  according  to  him,  con- 
tributes only  what  light  does  to  color;  all  else  is  external 
to  the  mind,  though  without  the  mind  nothing  could  at- 
tain to  actuality.  The  external  world,  then,  according 
to  Aristotle,  is  a  perfectly  real  existence,  but  it  is  the 
product  of  two  sets  of  factors — the  one  being  the  rich 
and  varied  constituents  of  the  universe,  the  other  being 
Reason  manifested  in  perceiving  minds;  and,  without 
the  presence  and  co-operation  of  this  perceptive  Rea- 
son, all  things  would  be  at  once  condemned  to  virtual 
annihilation. 

As  to  Matter,  Aristotle  called  it  "timber,"  or  "the 
underlying,"  to  indicate  that  it  is  to  existence  as  wood 
is  to  a  table,  and  that  it  is  something  which  is  implied 


AUI^TOTLE.  147 

in  all  existence.  Nothing  can  exist  without  Mailer, 
which  is  one  of  the  four  causes  of  the  existence  of  eve- 
ryiliing;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  said  that 
Matter  itself  has  no  existence.  Things  can  only  be  re- 
alized by  the  mind,  and  so  come  into  actual  existence, 
if  iliey  be  endowed  with  Form;  pure  Matter  denuded 
of  form  cannot  be  perceived  or  known,  and  therefore 
cannot  be  actual.  Suppose  we  take  marble  as  the  mat- 
ter or  material  of  which  a  statue  is  composed, — if  we 
think  of  the  marble  we  attribute  to  it  qualities — color, 
brilliancy,  hardness^  and  so  on,  and  these  qualities  con- 
stitute Form,  and  the  marble  is  no  longer  pure  Matter. 
We  have  to  ask,  then,  what  is  the  matter  "  underlying" 
the  marble?  and  again,  if  we  figure  to  ourselves  any* 
thing  possessing  definite  qualities — as,  for  instance,  any 
of  the  simple  substances  of  chemistry — we  at  once  have 
not  only  matter,  but  form.  Matter,  thus,  in  the  theory 
of  Aristotle,  is  something  which  must  always  bepresup. 
posed,  and  which  yet  always  eludes  us,  and  flies  back 
from  the  region  of  the  actual  into  that  of  Ihe  possible. 
Ultimate  matter,  or  "first  timber,"  necessarily  exists  as 
the  condition  of  all  thing,  but  it  remains  as  one  of  those 
possibilities  which  can  never  be  realized  (see  above,  p. 
49),  and  thus  forms  the  antithesis  to  God,  the  ever  act- 
ual. From  all  this  it  may  be  inferred  that  Aristotle 
would  have  considered  it  very  unphilosophical  to  repre- 
sent Matter,  as  some  philosophers  of  tiie  present  day  ap- 
pear to  do,  as  having  had  an  independent  existence,  and 
as  having  contained  the  germs,  not  only  of  all  other 
things,  but  even  of  Reason  itself,  so  that  out  of  Matter 
Reason  was  developed.  According  to  Aristotle,  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  Matter  at  all  as  actually  existing, 
far  less  as  the  one  independent  antecedent  cause  of  all 
things;  and  it  is  equally  impossible  to  think  of  Reason 


148  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

as  non-existent,  or  as  having  liad  a  late  and  derivative 
origin. 

Subsidiary  to  liis  theory  of  l^nowledge,  Aristotle  dis- 
courses at  some  length,  both  in  liis  treatise  "On  the 
Soul"  and  in  his  "  Physiological  Tracts,"  on  the  Five 
Senses.  He  affirms  that  the  sentient  soul  of  man  is 
able  to  discriminate  between  the  properties  of  things, 
"because  it  is  itself  a  mean  or  middle  term  between  the 
two  sensible  extremes  of  which  it  takes  cognizance — hot 
and  cold,  hard  and  soft,  wet  and  dry,  white  and  black, 
acute  and  grave,  bitter  and  sweet,  light  and  darkness, 
etc.  We  feel  no  sensation  at  all  when  the  object  touched 
is  exactly  of  the  same  temperature  with  ourselves, 
neither  hotter  n">r  colder."*  This  doctrine,  which  is 
obviously  true,  points  to  the  relativity  of  the  qualities 
of  things;  it  shows  that  all  qualities — e.g.,  "great" 
and  "small,"  and  all  the  rest — are  named  from  the 
liuman  stand-point,  and  that,  in  short,  "Man  is  the 
measure  of  all  things."  Protagoras,  indeed,  had  used 
this  dictum  in  order  to  throw  doubt  on  all  know- 
ledge and  truth,  for  he  said  that  everything  was  rela- 
tive to  the  individual  percipient,  and  that  what  ap- 
peared sweet  to  one  man  might  seem  bitter  to  another 
man;  thus,  that  there  could  be  no  truth  beyond  "what 
anyone  troweth;"  any  assertion  might  be  true  for  the 
individual  who  made  it,  and  not  for  any  one  besides. 
Aristotle  argues  against  this  skeptical  theory,  ("Meta- 
phys."  III.  iv.);  in  spite  of  minor  fluctuations  in  the 
subjective  perceptions  of  individuals  he  finds  ground 
for  truth  and  certainty  in  the  consen.vis  of  the  human 
race,  and  in  science  which  deals  with  universal  prop- 

*  Grote's    "Aristotle,",  vol.  ii.  p.  197.     See  "On  the  Soul," 
II.  <. 


ARISTOTLE.  149 

ositions  obtained  by  reason  out  of  particular  percep- 
tions. 

As  usual,  there  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  cor- 
rectness of  his  general  philosophy  of  the  senses  and 
that  of  his  particular  scientific  theory  of  the  operation 
of  each  sense.  While  the  world  has  made  no  advance 
upon  the  one — which  was  arrived  at  by  mere  force  of 
thought — the  other,  lacking  the  aid  of  instruments  and 
accumulated  experience,  has  been  wholly  left  behind, 
and  appears  infantile  when  compared  with  the  discov- 
eries of  a  Helnihollz.  The  following  is  a  specimen  of 
Aristotle's  physiology  of  the  senses:  "Do  sensations 
travel  to  us?"  he  asks.  "  Certainl}^"  is  the  reply;  "  the 
nearest  person  will  catch  an  odor  first.  Sound  is  per- 
ceived after  the  blow  which  caused  it.  The  letters  of 
which  words  are  composed  get  disarranged  by  being 
carried  in  the  air  (!).  and  hence  people  fail  to  hear  what 
has  been  said  at  a  distance.  Each  sense  has  its  own 
proper  vehicle.  Water  is  the  vehicle  of  sight,  air  of 
sound,  fire  of  smell,  earth  of  touch  and  taste.  Sensa- 
tions are  not  bodies,  but  motions  or  affections  of  the 
vehicle  or  medium  along  which  they  travel  to  us. 
Light,*  however,  is  an  exception  to  this  rule;  it  is  an 
existence,  not  a  motion;  it  produces  alteration,  and 
alteration  of  a  whole  mass  may  be  instantaneous  and 
simultaneous,  as  in  a  mass  of  water  freezing.  Thus 
Empedocles  was  mistaken  (!)  when  he  said  that  light 
travels  from  the  sun  to  the  earth,  and  that  there  is  a 
moment  when  each  ray  is  not  yet  seen,  but  is  being 
borne  midway." — ("Phys.  Tracts."  "On  Sensation." 
yiO 

*  The  theory  of  light  here  given  seems  to  be  not  only  erro- 
neous in  itself,  but  also  inconsistent  with  Aristotle's  explanation 
of  the  twinkling  of  the  stars.— (See  above,  p.  119.) 


150  TEE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

Among  the  permanent  contributions  to  mental  science 
which  were  made  by  Aristotle,  none  is  more  famous 
than  his  doctrine  of  the  "Law  of  Association,"  which 
he  throws  out  while  discussing  Memory  and  Recollec- 
tion in  his  "Physiological  Tracts."  He  says,  "Recol- 
lection is  the  recalling  of  knowledge.  It  implies  the 
existence  in  the  mind  of  certain  starting-points,  or  clues, 
so  that  when  you  get  hold  of  one  you  will  be  led  to  the 
rest.  It  depends  on  the  law  of  association:  we  recollect 
when  such  and  such  a  motion  naturally  follows  such 
and  such ;  we  feel  the  latter  motion,  and  that  produces 
the  former.  In  trying  to  recollect,  we  search  after 
something  that  is  in  sequence,  or  similarity,  or  contrast, 
or  proximity,  to  the  thing  which  we  want  to  recollect. 
Milk  will  suggest  whiteness,  whiteness  the  air,  the  air 
moisture,  and  this  the  rainy  season,  which  was  what  we 
were  trying  to  tinnk  of.  No  animal  but  man  has  the 
power  of  recollection,  though  many  animals  have  mem- 
ory. Recollection  implies  consideration  and  a  train  of 
reasoning,  and  yet  it  is  a  bodily  affection — a  physical 
movement  and  presentation."  Aristotle  adds  that  "  per- 
sons with  large  heads  are  bad  at  recollecting,  on  account 
of  the  weight  upon  their  perceptive  organ  (!),  and  tliat 
the  very  young  and  very  old  are  so,  on  account  of  the 
state  of  movement  they  are  in — the  one  in  the  move- 
ment of  growth,  the  other  in  that  of  decay." 

These  considerations,  however,  whether  correct  or 
erroneous,  all  belong  rather  to  psychology  than  to  met- 
aphysics. Let  us  conclude  by  endeavoring  to  gather 
Aristotle's  opinions  on  three  great  metaphysical  prob- 
lems: Tlie  destiny  of  the  human  soul,  free  will,  and  the 
nature  of  God.  His  opinions  on  these  subjects  have  to 
be  "gathered,"  because,  as  said  above  (p.  5),  he  had  no 
great  taste  for  such  speculations,  and  was  in  this  respecs 


ARISTOTLE.  151 

rery  unlike  Plato.  Over  the  mind  of  Plato  the  idea  of 
t  future  life  had  exercised  an  absorbing  influence. 
Xlisiug  to  an  almost  Christian  hope  and  faitii,  he  had 
held  out,  as  a  consolation  in  the  hour  of  death,  the 
promise  of  an  immortality  to  be  spent  in  the  fruition  of 
truth;  and,  as  a  motive  for  human  actions  and  a  basis 
for  morals,  he  had  enunciated  a  system  of  future  re- 
wards and  punishments,  closely  corresponding  with 
Heaven,  Hell,  and  Purgatory.  What  had  been  so 
prominent  with  Plato  was  by  Aristotle  put  away  into 
the  extreme  background.  In  earl}--  life,  indeed,  he  had 
written  a  dialogue,  called  "Eudemus,"  which  turned 
on  the  story  that  an  exile  had  been  told  by  the  oracle 
that  within  a  certain  time  he  should  be  "  restored  to  his 
home,"  and  that  within  that  time  he  had  died,  and  thus 
in  another  sense  had  "gone  home."  It  is  conjectured 
that  this  youthful  production  may  have  treated  of  the 
survival  of  tlie  individual  Reason  into  another  state  of 
existence.  But  in  Aristotle's  maturer  works,  so  far 
from  such  a  doctrine  being  laid  down,  and  deductions 
made  from  it,  passages  occur  which  would  seem  to  ren- 
der it  untenable.  "The  Soul,"  says  Aristotle,  "is  the 
function  of  the  body,  as  sight  is  of  the  eye.  Some  of 
its  pans,  however,  may  be  separable  from  the  body,  as 
not  arising  out  of  the  material  organization.  This  is 
the  case  with  the  Ileason,  which  cannot  be  regarded  as 
the  result  of  bodily  conditions,  but  Avhich  is  divine,  and 
enters  into  each  of  us  from  without.  Ileason,  as  mani- 
fested in  ihe  individual  mind,  is  twofold,  constructive 
and  passive  (see  above,  p.  146).  The  passive  Ileason, 
which  receives  the  impressions  of  external  things,  is  the 
seat  of  memorj'',  but  it  perishes  with  the  body;  while 
the  constrr.ctive  Ileason  transcends  the  body,  being  ca- 
pable of  separation  from  it  and  from  all  things.     It  is 


153  THE  ELZJ'JVlli  LIBHAUY. 

an  everlasting  existence,  incapable  of  being  mingled 
with  matter,  or  affected  by  it;  it  is  prior  and  subse- 
quent to  the  individual  mind;  but  though  immortal,  it 
carries  no  memory  with  it,"* 

This  last  sentence  would  seem  logically  to  exclude 
the  possibility  of  a  future  life  for  the  individuiil,  for 
memory  is  requisite  to  individuality;  and  if  till  that 
is  inmiortal  in  us  is  incapable  of  memory,  it  would 
seem  that  the  only  immortality  possible  would  be  that 
of  a  Buddhist  nirmna,  all  the  actions  of  this  life  and 
all  individual  distinctions  having  been  erased.  Thus, 
it  would  appear  that  the  same  dictum  might  be  applied 
to  the  human  race  that  is  applied  ("  Soul,"  II.  iv.  4) 
to  the  worlis  of  Nature:  "Perpetuity,  for  which  all 
things  long,  is  attained  not  by  the  individual,  for  that 
is  impossible,  but  by  the  species."  These  logical  de- 
ductions are,  however,  never  drawn  by  Aristotle 
himself,  who  in  his  "  Ethics"  (I.  xi,  1)  protests  against 
any  rude  contradiction  of  the  popular  opinion  that  the 
dead  retain  their  consciousness,  and  even  their  interest 
in  what  passes  in  this  world.  Thus,  whether  he  did 
or  did  not  believe  in  a  future  life  has  been  a  matter 
for  controversy  in  modern  times.  On  the  whole,  while 
we  have  hardly  sufficient  data  for  pronouncing  one 
waj-^  or  the  other,  it  seems  certain  that  no  part  of  his 
philosophy,  so  far  as  we  possess  it,  shows  any  trace  of 
the  influence  of  this  doctrine. 

As  to  Free  Will:  That  is  a  question  which  has 
arisen  out  of  theology,  out  of  the  ideas  of  the  infinite 
power  and  knowledge  of  a  personal  God,  which  caused 
the  question  to  be  asked,  Can  man  do  anything  except 
what  he  has  been  predestined  to  do?    But  such  a  diffl- 

*  Collected  from  '"Soul,"  II.  i.  7-12;  III.  v.  2.  " GeneratioB," ' 
U.  m.  10. 


ARISTOTLE.  153 

cv.Ity  implies  two  conditions,  both  of  "which  were  absent 
from  the  mind  of  Aristotle — namely,  a  strong  appre- 
hension of  the  personality  and  will  of  God,  and  a  strong 
apprehension  of  the  importance  of  human  acts  and  of 
the  eternal  consequences  attached  to  them.  Aristotle, 
as  we  shall  see,  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  attributed 
personality  to  the  Deity;  he  thought  human  actions  to 
be  of  comparatively  small  importance;  and  he  thought 
freedom  to  be,  in  a  certain  sense,  valueless.  Hence,  we 
only  mention  the  problem  of  Free  Will  in  connection 
with  him  in  order  to  show  how  his  ideas  contrast  with 
those  of  the  modern  world.  By  a  curious  metaphor 
("Metaphys."  XI.  x.),  he  figured  the  universe  as  a 
liousehold,  in  which  the  sun  and  stars  and  all  the 
heavens  are  the  masters,  whose  high  aims  and  important 
positions  prevent  any  of  iheir  time  being  left  to  a 
merely  arbitrary  disposal,  for  all  is  taken  up  with  a 
round  of  the  noblest  duties  and  occupations.  Other 
parts  of  the  universe  are  like  the  infeiior  members  of 
the  family — the  slaves  and  domestic  animals — who  can 
to  a  great  extent  pursue  their  own  devices.  Under  the 
last  category  man  would  be  ranked.  Aristotle  does 
not  regard  the  unchanging  and  perpetual  motion  of 
the  heavenly  bodies  as  a  bondage,  nor  what  is  arbi- 
trary in  the  human  will  as  a  privilege.  His  cosmical 
views  tended  to  disparage  the  dignity  of  man.  He 
would  say  with  tiie  Psalmist,  "  What  is  man  in  com- 
parison with  the  heavens  ?"  But  he  failed  to  reach  the 
counterbalancing  thought  of  Kant,  that  "There  are 
two  things  which  strike  the  mind  vviih  awe — the  starry 
heavens  and  the  moral  nature  of  man." 

Within  an  eternal  and  immutable  circumference  of 
the  heavens,  Aristotle  placed  a  comparatively  narrow 
spnere  of  the  changeable,  and  in  this,  Nature,  Chance. 


154  TUB  ELZEVIU  LIBRARY, 

aud  Human  "Will  were  the  causes  at  work.  He  admitted 
a  certain  amount  of  determinism  as  controlling  the 
human  will,  but  he  did  not  care  to  trace  out  the  exact 
proportions  of  this  ;  he  merely  maintained  that  the 
individual  was  a  "joint  cause,"  if  not  the  sole  cause, 
of  his  own  character  and  actions  ("Eth."  III.  vii.  20). 
He  thought  that  mankind  had  existed  from  all  eternity, 
and  that  there  had  been  over  and  over  again  a  constant 
process  of  development  going  on,  till  the  sciences,  and 
arts,  and  society  had  been  brought  to  perfection -•  and 
then  that  by  some  great  deluge,  or  other  natural  'Con- 
vulsion, the  race  had  invariably  been  destroyed — all 
but  a  few  individuals  who  had  escaped,  and  who  >Aad 
had  to  commence  anew  the  first  steps  towards  civihza- 
tion. 

To  us,  in  the  present  day,  it  seems  absolutely  ckar 
that  when  we  speak  of  a  person  we  do  not  mean  a 
thing,  and  that  when  we  speak  of  a  thing  we  do  not 
mean  a  person.  In  Grecian  philosophy,  however,  t^iis 
was  not  the  case,  for  by  both  Plato  *  and  Aristotle, 
God  was  spoken  of  both  as  personal  and  as  impersonal, 
without  any  reconciliation  between  the  two  points  of 
view,  or  any  remark  on  the  subject.  In  the  same  way 
they  both  pass  from  the  plural  to  the  singular,  aud 
speak  of  "the  gods"  or  "God"  as  if  it  hardly  mat- 
tered which  term  was  used.  This  seems  at  first  sur- 
prising, but  when  we  look  into  the  matter  (confining 
our  inquiry  to  the  views  of  Aristotle),  certain  explana- 
tions offer  themselves.  When  he  speaks  of  "  the 
gods,"  he  is  partly  accommodating  himself  to  the 
ordinary  language  of  Greece,  and  partly  he  is  indi- 
cating the  heavenly  bodies,  as  conscious,   happy  ex- 

*  See  Professor  Jowett's  "Dialogues  of  Plato  Translated  " 
vol.  iv.  p.  11. 


ABISTOTLE.  155 

istences,  worthy  to  be  reckoned  with  that  Supreme 
God,  Who  inhabits  the  outside  of  the  universe,  and 
imparts  their  everlasting  motion  to  tlie  heavens 
Wlien  he  speaks  of  "God,"  he  has  in  his  mind  that 
Supreme  Being,  "Who,  unmoved  Himself,  is  the  cause 
of  motion  to  all  things,  being  the  object  of  reason  and 
of  desire — being,  in  short,  the  Good.  Here  the  transi- 
tion from  a  person  to  an  abstract  idea  is  obvious;  but 
if  God  is  the  object  of  desire  to  the  universe  and  t(v 
Nature,  who  or  what  is  it  that  desires  Him?  Clearly, 
reason  or  divine  instinct  is  placed  by  this  theory 
within  Nature  itself.  In  other  words,  this  is  Pan- 
theism: it  represents  Nature  as  instinct  with  God, 
and  God  in  Nature  desiring  God  as  the  Idea  of  Good. 
But  Aristotle  passes  on  from  this  view  to  describe 
God  as  "  Thought" — that  is,  as  rather  more  personal 
than  impersonal — and  he  asks,  on  what  does  that 
thought  think?  Thought  must  have  an  object,  and  it 
will  be  determined  in  its  character  by  that  object;  it 
will  be  elevated  or  deteriorated  according  as  the  object 
on  which  it  thinks  is  high  or  low.  But  this  cannot  be 
the  case  with  God,  who  cannot  be  subject  to  these  alter- 
ations. "  God,  therefore,  must  think  upon  Himself; 
the  thought  of  God  is  the  thinking  upon  thought." 
Only  for  a  moment  ("Metaphys."  XL  x.  1)  does 
Aristotle  seem  to  take  up  something  like  our  point  of 
view,  when  he  says  that  God  may  be  to  the  world  as 
the  general  is  to  an  army.  This  seems  like  the  modern 
view,  because  it  would  imply  something  like  will  in 
the  nature  of  God.  But  it  is  a  mere  passing  metaphor, 
and  none  of  the  other  utterances  of  the  Stagirite  would 
attribute  anything  like  will,  providence,  or  ordering  of 
affairs  to  the  Deity.  We  arc  told  ('*  Eth."  X.  viii.  7) 
that  it  would  be  absurd  to  attribute  to   Him  iroMi 


156  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

qualities  or  virtues,  or  any  human  function  except  philo- 
sophic thought.  He  enjoys,  however,  happiness  of  the 
most  exalted  kind,  such  as  we  can  frame  but  an  indis- 
tinct notion  of  by  tlie  analogy  of  our  own  highest  and 
most  blessed  moods.  This  happiness  is  everlasting, 
and  God  "has,  or  rather  is,"  continuous  and  eternal 
life  and  duration.* 

We  have  been  unavoidably  launched  upon  a  solemn 
subject,  because  any  account  of  Aristotle  which  did 
not  sketch  his  theories  of  the  Deity  would  have  been 
incomplete.  It  will  be  seen  that,  on  the  whole,  his 
tendency  is  to  what  we  should  call  Pantheism.  "Rea- 
son is  divine,  and  Reason  is  everywhere,  desiring  the 
Good  and  moving  the  world:"  that  is  a  summary  of 
Aristotle's  philosophy.  Of  all  modern  speculators,  the 
one  who  most  nearly  approaches  him  is  John  Stuart 
Mill,  who  represents  God  as  benevolent,  but  not  om- 
nipotent. Aristotle  also  would  Bay  that  the  desire  for 
the  Good  which  runs  through  Nature  is  baffled  by  the 
imperfections  of  matter  and  the  irregularities  of  chance. 
The  great  defect  in  Aristotle's  conception  of  God  is, 
that  he  denies  that  God  can  be  a  moral  Being.  This. 
in  fact,  entirely  separates  God  from  man;  it  leaves  only 
Theology  possible,  but  not  Religion;  it  takes  away  from 
morality  all  divine  sanctions.  Plato's  view  was  differ- 
ent; but  even  he  fell  short  of  that  deep  idea  of  God,  as 
the  Righteous  One,  which  was  revealed  to  the  Hebrew 
nation  through  their  lawgivers  and  prophets,  and  after- 
wards through  our  Saviour, 

*  The  above  statement  of  Aristotle's  views  of  the  Deity  is  col- 
lected from  "  Metaphysics,"  XI.  vi.-x. 


ARISTOTLE.  157 

CHAPTER  X. 

ARISTOTLE  SINCE  THE   CHRISTIAN  ERA. 

"We  have  seen  above  (p.  36)  that  in  the  time  of  Cicero 
— that  is  to  say,  shortly  before  the  Christian  era — tLie 
works  of  Aristotle  were  very  little  known  even  to 
philosophers.  The  edition  of  those  works  by  Andro- 
nicus  was  made  and  published  in  the  last  half  century 
before  the  birth  of  Christ.  And  then — three  hundred 
years  after  the  death  of  Aristotle — there  began  silently 
and  imperceptibly  the  first  dawn  of  that  wider  reputa- 
tion of  him,  which  was  destined  to  shine  through  the 
whole  of  Europe  for  a  thousand  years  with  evergrow- 
ing and  increasing  splendor. 

During  the  period  of  the  Roman  Em.pire,  the  day 
for  original  philosophies  was  gone  by.  The  works  of 
Aristotle,  in  the  form  in  which  they  were  now  pre- 
sented to  the  world — being  a  culmination  of  ancient 
thought,  and  containing  a  dogmatic  exposition  of  the 
outlines  of  every  science;  being  rich  in  ideas  and 
facts,  precise  in  terms,  and  yet  condensed,  and  often 
obscure — offered  to  the  minds  of  intellectual  men,  and 
especially  the  subtle  Greeks  of  those  times,  exactly 
the  kind  of  food  and  employment  which  suited  them. 
To  study  one  of  these  treatises,  and  comment  upon  it, 
became  now  regarded  as  sufficient  achievement  for  the 
life  of  one  man.  Aristotle  thus  shared  the  honors 
awarded  to  the  sacred  books  of  different  nations;  he 
became  placed  so  high  as  an  authority,  that  merely  to 
expound  or  explain  his  meaning  was  a  path  to  fame. 
The  race  of  Greek  commentators,  or  "Scholiasts,"  was 
spread  over  three  or  four  centuries,  the  most  distin- 
guished names  among  them  being  those  of  Boethus, 


158  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

Nicolas  of  Damascus,  Alexander  of  MgG,  Aspasius, 
Adrastus,  Galenus,  Alexander  of  Aphiodisias,  Por- 
phyry, lamblichus,  Dexippus,  Theraistius,  Proclus.Am- 
monius,  David  the  Armenian,  Asclepius,  Olympiodorus, 
Simplicius,  and  Johannes  Philoponus.  The  writings 
of  many  of  these  worthies  have  b<;en  lost,  and  their 
memory  ouly  survives  through  their  having  been 
quoted  in  the  more  enduring  commentaries  of  others. 
What  remains  of  the  whole  body  of  these  Scholia  is 
various  in  worth,  ranging  from  emptiest  platitudes  up 
to  remarks  of  subtlety  and  ability.  Occasionally,  but 
too  rarely,  the  Greek  scholiasts  preserve  for  us  some 
precious  sentence  or  tradition  of  antiquity.  The  late 
Professor  Brand  is  has  condensed  into  one  closely- 
printed  quarto  volume  all  that  he  considered  worth 
notice  of  the  ''  ScJwlia  upon  Aristotle,"  and  even  with 
some  of  these  we  might  have  dispensed. 

Gradually  Christianity  took  possession  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  and  then  came  the  inundation  of  barbarians, 
whose  uncultivated  natures  had  no  sympathy  with 
literature,  science,  or  philosoph3^  Libraries  were  de- 
stroyed, or,  unused,  underwent  the  course  of  natural 
decay.  The  arts  fell  into  abeyance,  and  Western 
Europe,  as  if  in  order  to  be  born  again,  seemed  to  pass 
through  the  waters  of  Lethe.  From  the  sixth  to  the 
thirteenth  century  all  knowledge  of  the  Greek  writers 
was  lost.  But  long  before  the  close  of  this  period 
intellectual  life  had  begun  to  stir  again  among  the  friars 
and  ecclesiastics  of  the  Continent;  and  the  chief  nourish- 
ment for  that  life  consisted  of  a  fragment  from  antiquity, 
being  none  other  than  Latin  translations*  of  the  so- 

*  These  translations  were  attributed  to  Boethius,  the  "  last  of 
the  philosophers,"  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  and  beginning  of  tha 
sixth  century. 


ARISTOTLE.  158 

called  * 'Categories'*  and  "Interpretation"  of  Aristotle 
(see  above,  pp.  49-50),  and  of  tlie  "  Introduction"  of 
Porphyry  to  the  first-named  of  the  two  treatises,  la 
earlier  and  better-informed  ages  Aristotle  had  been  re- 
pudiated by  some  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  as  being, 
at  all  events,  in  comparison  with  Plato,  "atheistical." 
But  no  harm  to  theology  could  arise  from  a  study  of 
the  dry  formulae  of  logic  and  metaphysics.  Nay,  these 
formulae,  while  totally  devoid  of  all  dangerous  color- 
ing or  character — being  merel}^  some  of  the  funda- 
mental and  ordinary  principles  of  reasoning — were  likely 
to  do  good  service  to  the  Church,  by  training  her  adher- 
ents to  argue  skillfully  in  her  behalf.  Thus,  the  ' '  Cate- 
gories" and  "Interpretation"  won  their  place  as  text- 
books for  youth;  and  thus  the  "Scholastic  Philosophy," 
which  consisted  in  lectures  and  disputations  chiefly  on 
matters  mooted  by  Aristotle,  took  its  rise  out  of  the 
Latin  translations  of  these  Peripatetic  treatises. 

Afterwards  a  richer  knowledge  of  Aristotle  came  to 
the  schools  of  the  West  from  what  might  have  been 
considered  an  unlikely  source — namely,  the  Arabs  in 
Spain.  Departing  from  the  example  of  him  who  burned 
the  Alexandrian  library,  and  from  the  traditionary  ten- 
dencies of  Mahometans  in  all  ages,  the  Arabs  of  Bag- 
dad, Cairo,  and  Cordova  indulged  in  a  period  of  en- 
lightenment and  of  intellectual  activity.  This  period 
was  chiefly  inaugurated  by  Almamun,  the  son  of  Harun- 
al-Raschid,  and  seventh  of  the  Abbasside  Caliphs  at 
Bagdad  (a.d.  810),  who  "invited  the  Muses  from  theii 
ancient  seats.  His  ambassadors  at  Constantinople, 
his  agents  in  Armenia,  Syria,  and  Egypt,  collected  th« 
volumes  of  Grecian  science;  at  his  command  they  were 
translated  by  the  most  skillful  interpreters  into  the  Arabic 
language;    his  subjects  were  exhorted  assiduously  to 


l60  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

peruse  these  instructive  writings;  and  the  successor  of 
Mahomet  assisted  with  pleasure  and  modesty  at  the 
assemblies  and  disputations  of  the  learned."  "  The  age 
of  Arabian  learning  continued  about  five  hundred  years, 
till  the  great  irruption  of  the  Moguls,  and  was  coeval 
with  the  darkest  and  most  slothful  period  of  European 
annals."*  It  was  during  the  twelfth  century  that  the 
Arabs  of  Cordova  became  the  schoolmasters  of  the 
"schoolmen,"  and  poured  a  flood  of  learning  into 
Europe.  The  chief  of  them  was  the  great  Ibn-Raschid 
(a.d.  1120-1198),  whose  name  was  Latinized  Averroes. 
Besides  other  philosophical  works,  he  wrote  "Commen- 
taries" on  all  the  principal  works  of  Aristotle,  and  these 
were  translated  into  Latin  and  published  abroad.  Aver- 
roes knew  no  Greek,  and  his  commentaries  were  made 
upon  the  existing  Arabic  versions  of  Aristotle;  but  he 
quoted  the  translations  of  the  text  of  each  passage  en- 
tire before  elucidating  the  meaning,  and  thus  he  brought 
a  great  deal  of  the  thought  of  Aristotle,  though  passed 
through  a  double  translation,  to  the  notice  of  Europe. 
In  commenting  upon  Aristotle,  his  attention  seems  to 
have  been  drawn  to  that  passage,  above  referred  to  (p. 
172),  on  the  difference  between  the  Constructive  and  the 
Passive  Reason.  Following  out  this  idea,  he  made  it 
the  basis  of  a  doctrine  of  "  Monopsychism,"  to  the  effect 
that  the  Constructive  Reason  is  one  individual  substance, 
being  one  and  the  same  in  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  all 
other  individuals;  whence  it  follows  that  individuality 
consists  only  in  bodily  sensations,  which  are  perishable, 
so  that  nothing  which  is  individual  can  be  immortal, 
and  nothing  which  is  immortal  can  be  individual. 
These  doctrines  spread  from  tlie  Arabs  to  the  Jews  of 

♦Gibbon's  "Decline  and  Fal!  of  the  Boman  Empire."  chap. 


ARISTOTLE.  101 

Spain,  and  from  them  to  the  Christian  schools,  and 
Averroism  became  a  leaven  in  the  scholastic  philoso- 
phies, causing,  as  might  be  expected,  the  most  virulent 
strife  betw^een  the  opponents  and  supporters  of  the 
theory  of  "Monopsychism." 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  thirteenth  century  Aristotle 
reached  the  height  of  his  glory.  At  this  time,  partly 
from  Arabian  copies  in  Spain  and  partly  from  Greek 
MSS.  which  the  Crusaders  brought  with  them  from 
Constantinople,  Western  Christendom  had  obtained  the 
whole  of  his  works.  He  was  now  commented  on  by 
eminent  ecclesiastics;  indeed  he  occupied  and  almost 
monopolized  the  most  powerful  minds  of  Europe. 
Chief  among  these  may  be  mentioned  Albert  "the 
Great,"  the  most  fertile  and  learned  of  the  schoolmen, 
who  has  left  commentaries  on  Aristotle  which  fill  six 
folio  volumes;  and  Ms  pupil,  St.  Tiiomas  Aquinas,  who 
prepared  (1260-70),  through  the  instrumentality  of  the 
monk  Wilhelm  of  Moerbecke,  a  new  translation  of  the 
entire  works  after  Greek  originals;  and  who  himself 
wrote  laborious  commentaries  on  the  "  Metaphysics," 
the  "Ethics,"  and  other  books.  It  may  be  observed 
that  by  these  great  churchmen  Aristotle  is  treated  with 
the  most  implicit  confidence;  they  seem  blind  to  all  that 
is  Greek  and  pagan  in  his  point  of  view;  they  defend 
him  from  charges  of  Averroism;  and  treat  him,  in  short, 
as  one  of  themselves.  All  this,  of  course,  argues  a  great 
want  of  the  critical  and  historical  faculty,  and  much 
mixing  up  of  things — "syncretism,"  as  it  is  called  by 
the  learned;  but  historical  criticism  was  hardly  to  be 
looked  for  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  Stagirite  was  now  almost  incorporated  with 
Christianity.  The  Summa  Theologice  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas  was  a  compound  of  the  logic,  physics,  and 


162  TEE  ELZEVIR  LIBRABT. 

ethics  of  Aristotle  with  Christian  divinity.  But  th« 
highest  honor  of  all  came  to  him  in  the  year  1300 
A.D.,  when  he  was  hailed  in  the  "Divina  Commeaia" 
of  Dante  as  "the  master  of  those  that  know,"  sitting 
as  head  of  "  the  philosophic  family,"  to  whom  Socrates 
and  Plato  and  all  the  rest  must  look  up.*  Him  Dante 
figured  thus  sitting  in  the  "  limbo,"  or  fringe,  of  hell, 
with  all  the  great  spirits  of  antiquity,  who  had  lived 
before  Christianity  and  without  baptism;  they  were 
free  from  torment,  but  were  sad,  because  they  felt  the 
desire,  but  had  no  hope,  of  seeing  God. 

Dante  had  been  a  diligent  and  reverential  student  of 
Aristotle,  especially  in  the  commentaries  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas.  In  his  "  Convito,"  he  says  that  "  Aristotle  is 
most  worthy  of  trust  and  obedience,  as  being  the  master- 
artist  who  considers  of  and  teaches  us  the  endf  of  hu- 
man life  to  which,  as  men,  we  are  ordained."  In  the 
11th  canto  of  the  "Inferno,"  he  follows  up  Aristotle's 
views  of  the  "  unnatural"  character  of  usury  (see  above, 
p.  107),  and  places  usurers  in  hell  among  those  who  do 
violence  to  God  and  Nature,  the  reasons  for  which  he 
sets  forth  in  a  learned  discourse.  But  the  most  striking 
thing  of  all  is  to  find  that  Dante,  in  the  24th  canto  of 
the  "  Paradiso,"  commences  the  statement  of  his  own 
theological  creed  in  words  taken  directly  from  Aristotle's 
definition  of  the  Deity — 


*  Daaate,  "  Inferno,"  canto  iv.  131— 

"  Vidi  il  Maestro  di  color  che  sanno 

Seder  tra  filosofica  famiglia; 

Tutti  lo  miran,  tutti  onor  gli  fanno. 

Quivi  vid'  io  Socrate  e  Platone, 

Che  Innanzi  agli  altri  piu  presso  gli  stanno." 
t  This,  of  course,  refers  to  the  "Ethics."— See  above,  p.  88. 


ARISTOTLE.  -  163 

"  I  in  one  God  believe; 
One  sole  eternal  (Jodhead,  of  whose  love 
All  heaven  in  moved,  himself  unmoved  the  while."  * 

And  in  the  STtli  canto,  Beatrice,  standing  on  the  ninth 
heaven,  points  to  the  circumference,  or  primum  mobile, 
of  Aristotle  (see  above,  p.  119),  and  discourses  to  Danle 
in  the  following  tlioroughly  Aristotelian  terras: — 

*'  Here  is  the  goal,  whence  motion  on  his  race 
Starts:  motionless  the  centre,  and  the  rest 
All  moved  around.    Except  the  soul  divine. 
Place  in  this  heaven  is  none ;  the  soul  divine, 
Wherein  the  love,  whirh  ruletli  o'er  its  orb, 
lo  kindled,  and  the  virtue,  that  it  sheds: 
One  circle,  light  and  love,  enclasping  it, 
As  this  doth  clasp  the  others;  and  to  Him, 
Who  draws  the  bound,  its  limit  only  known. 
Measured  itself  by  none,  it  doth  divide 
Motion  to  all,  counted  unto  them  forth, 
As  by  the  fifth  or  half  ye  count  forth  ten. 
The  vase,  wherein  time's  roots  are  plunged,  thou  eeest: 
Look  elsehere  for  the  leaves." 

It  was  not  till  240  years  after  these  verses  had  been 
written  that  Copernicus  propounded  his  system  of  the 
motion  of  the  earth  and  the  other  planets  round  the 
sun;  and  that  system  only  gradually  won  its  way  to  ac- 
ceptance, even  in  scientific  minds,  and  with  the  aid  of 
the  demonstrations  of  Galileo.  Till  the  end  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century  the  Aristotelian  system — further  elab- 
orated by  the  Alexandrian  Ptolemy  and  by  King  Al- 
phonso  X.  of  Castile  (1252-1284  a, d.)— maintained  its 
influence,  and  filled  the  literature  of  all  Europe  with  a 
particular  train  of  associations. f     Shakespeare  lived 

♦  Gary's  Translation.— See  above,  p.  155. 
t  When  Shakespeare  wrote — 

"  And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres,'* 
h6  was  referring  to  the  Ptolemaic  or  Alphonsine  spheres.    Tb* 


164  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

and  died  in  the  faith  of  the  older  sj'stem.  Milton  had 
been  bred  in  it  as  a  boy,  and  the  plan  of  his  universe  in 
the  "Paradise  Lost"  was  drawn  according  to  it.  Yet 
still,  as  a  learned  man,  he  was  well  acquainted  with  all 
that  could  be  said  in  favor  of  the  Copernican  system. 
And  he  puts  these  arguments  into  the  mouth  of  Adam 
in  the  8th  book  of  "  Paradise  Lost."  An  angel,  in  re- 
ply, reminds  Adam — what  is,  in  fact,  the  case — that 
neither  the  motion  of  the  sun  nor  of  the  earth  can  be 
absolutely  proved;  and  adds  that  these  are  matters  too 
high  and  abstruse  for  human  inquiry.  Milton's  mind 
was  "appal-ently  uncertain  to  the  last  which  of  the  two 
Bystems,  the  Ptolemaic  or  the  Copernican,  was  the  true 
one."*  Surely,  however,  if  but  slowly,  the  Copernican 
theory  established  itself  in  the  mind  of  Europe,  and 
when  once  it  had  been  established,  then  a  great  gulf 
was  set  between  Aristotle  and  the  modern  world. 

We  have  seen  Aristotle  an  object  of  reverence  to  the 
great  scholastic  philosophers  and  the  great  poet  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  But  we  must  not  forget  that  the  univer- 
sities were,  so  to  speak,  founded  in  Aristotle — that  for 
a  long  time  the  chief  end  of  their  being  was  to  teach 
Aristotle.  Chaucer  describes  the  zeal  of  the  poor  Ox- 
ford student  for  this  kind  of  learning  in  the  following 
terms : — 

"  A  clerk  there  was  of  Oxenf  ord  also 

That  unto  logik  hadde  long  y  go: 

As  lene  was  his  hors  as  Is  a  rake. 

And  he  was  not  right  fast,  I  undertake; 

But  looked  holwe  and  thereto  soberlye. 

Ful  threadbare  was  his  overest  courtepye. 

common  metaphor  of  a  person's  "  sphere"  is  a  sm-vival  of  the 
Bame  notion. 

*  See  Professor  Masson'p  '^-'Uion  of  "  Milton's  Poetical  Works" 
(Macmillan,  1874),  vol.  i.  p>  •"' 


ARISTOTLE.  165 

For  he  had  gotten  him  no  benefice, 
He  was  not  worldly  to  have  an  office. 
For.  him  was  lever  have  at  his  beddes  hed 
Twenty  bookes  clothed  in  blake  or  red 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophie, 
Than  robes  rich  or  fldel  or  sautrie." 

This  almost  living  picture  from  the  fourteenth  century 
doubtless  represented  correctly  the  loyal  and  undoubt- 
ing  faith  in  tne  Stagirite,  to  be  found  among  many  gen- 
erations of  students,  not  only  at  Oxford,  but  at  Paris 
and  Padua,  and  the  other  seats  of  universities. 

But  a  spirit  of  revolt  against  authority  in  general, 
and  especially  agaiust  the  authority  of  Aristotle,  was 
destined  to  show  itself,  being  fostered  by  the  progress 
of  time,  the  revival  of  learning,  and  the  Reformation. 
In  the  year  1538  we  find  Peter  Ramus,  then  a  youth 
of  twenty  years  of  age,  choosing  as  the  subject  of  his 
thesis  for  the  M.A.  degree,  in  the  University  of  Paris, 
the  proposition,  that  "Whatever  has  been  said  by 
Aristotle  is  false!"  It  may  be  imagined  with  what 
consternation  the  announcement  of  this  thesis,  which 
seemed  scarcely  less  than  blasphemous,  was  received 
by  the  academical  authorities.  However,  the  young 
Ramus  acquitted  himself  with  such  ability,  as  well  as 
boldness,  that  he  obtained  his  degree  and  the  license  to 
teach.  This  license  he  employed  in  lecturing  and 
writing  against  the  Peripatetic  logic.  He  propounded 
a  method  of  his  own  in  which  more  attention  was  to 
be  paid  to  the  discovery  of  truth.  He  formed  a  sect 
of  Ramists,  and  rallied  round  himself  the  malcontent 
spirits  of  France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland.  In  some 
of  the  universities  Ramism  obtained  a  firm  hold.  Bitt 
he  had  to  fight  a  hard  battle  with  the  Aristotelians, 
who  were  armed  with  official  power,  and  not  slow  to 
use  it  in  the  way  of  persecution;  jiis  books  were  often 


166  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

condemned  to  be  suppressed,  and  finally  he  was  a 
martyr  to  the  cause  which  he  had  chosen.  Being  a 
Huguenot,  he  was  assassinated  by  his  Aristotelian 
enemies  during  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  (1573 
A.D.)  The  arguments  of  Ramus  seem  nowadays  to 
have  no  weight  against  the  "  Organon"  of  Aristotle, 
but  they  are  valid  against  that  perverted  use  of  the 
"Organon"  which  constituted  the  Scholastic  method. 
It  was  quite  necessary  that  the  spell  which  Aristotle 
had  so  long  exercised  over  the  world  should  be  broken 
and  Ramus  did  good  service  in  somewhat  rudely  as- 
sailing it. 

If  the  first  great  attack  upon  Aristotle  proceeded 
from  a  spirit  of  revolt  within  the  logic  schools,  the 
second  was  a  direct  manifestation  of  the  results  of  the 
Renaissance,  and  consisted  in  bringing  learning  and 
criticism  to  bear  upon  the  works  of  Aristotle.  This 
was  done  by  Patrizzi,  or  Patricius,  who  brought  out 
his  "  Discussiones  Peripateticss"  at  Bale  in  1571.  Pa- 
tricius possessed  a  combination  of  character  which  is 
fortunately  not  often  seen, — being  extremely  learned 
and  very  able,  but,  at  the  same  time,  ill-conditioned, 
egotistical,  and  wrong-headed.  Preferring  in  his  own 
mind  a  sort  of  Neo-Platonic  philosophy  to  the  Peripa- 
tetic system,  he  set  himself  to  work  in  the  book  just 
mentioned  to  pull  Aristotle  to  pieces.  The  first  section 
of  the  "  Discussiones"  treated  of  the  life  and  morals  of 
the  Stagirite,  and  raked  together  against  him  all  the  per- 
sonal charges  to  be  found  scattered  through  the  remains 
of  antiquity  (see  above,  p.  26) ;  the  second  section  criti- 
cally assailed  with  great  learning  the  genuineness  of 
the  works  of  Aristotle,  and  proved  them  all  to  be 
spurious  (?).  The  remaining  sections  undertook  to 
refute  the  system  of  philosophy  which  they  contained. 


ARISTOTLE.  167 

The  attack  of  Patricius  was  overdone  in  malignity,  yet 
still  it  had  a  powerful  effect  in  inducing  men  to  think 
for  themselves  when  they  saw  the  claims  of  their  oracle 
thus  stringently  called  in  question. 

Another  impulse  to  reaction  against  authority  was 
given  by  science  itself,  in  the  shape  of  discoveries 
which  were  irreconcilable  with  the  dicta  of  authority. 
In  the  year  1592,  Galileo,  wishing  to  test  the  truth  of 
Aristotle's  principle  that  "  the  velocity  of  falling  bodies 
is  proportionate  to  their  weight,"  ascended  the  leaning 
tower  of  Pisa,  and  launching  bodies  of  different  weight, 
demonstrated  that  they  reached  the  ground  simulta- 
neously, and  thus  that  the  principle  which  had  been  so 
long  held  with  undoubting  faith  was  erroneous.  The 
Aristotelians  of  Pisa,  however,  were  so  much  annoyed 
by  this  demonstraton,  that  they  compelled  Galileo  to 
leave  the  city. 

Aristotle's  philosophy  had,  since  the  days  of  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas,  been  bound  up  with  the  Catholic 
Church.  Therefore  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
Luther,  in  the  commencement  of  the  Reformation, 
should  have  "inveighed  against  the  Aristotelian  logic 
and  metaphysics,  or  rather  against  the  sciences  them- 
selves; nor  was  Melanchthon  at  that  time  much  behind 
him.  But  time  ripened  in  this,  as  it  did  in  theology, 
the  disciple's  excellent  understanding;  and  he  even  ob- 
tained influence  enough  over  the  master  to  make  him 
retract  some  of  that  invective  against  philosophy  which 
at  first  threatened  to  bear  down  all  human  reason.  Me- 
lanchthon became  a  strenuous  advocate  of  Aristotle,  in 
opposition  to  all  other  ancient  philosophy.  He  intro- 
duced into  the  University  of  "Wittenberg,  to  which  all 
Protestant  Germany  looked  up,  a  scheme  of  dialectics 
and  physics,  founded  upon  the  Peripatetic  school,  but 


168  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

improved  by  his  own  acuteness  and  knowledge.  Thus 
in  his  books  the  physical  science  of  antiquity  is  enlarged 
by  all  that  had  been  added  in  astronomy  and  physi- 
ology. It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the  authority  of 
Scripture  was  always  resorted  to  as  controlling  a  phi- 
losophy which  had  been  considered  unfavorable  to 
natural  religion."*  This  system  of  Melanchthon's  got 
the  nickname  of  the  "Philippic  Method,"  and  it  was 
received  with  so  much  favor  in  the  Protestant  Univer- 
sities of  Germany,  as  to  cause  these  Universities  to  op- 
pose the  spread  of  Ramism. 

Scholastic4';m  and  the  love  of  authority  died  hard, 
and  not  without  many  a  struggle.  It  is  recorded  that 
so  late  as  the  year  1629  an  Act  of  the  French  Parlia- 
ment was  passed  forbidding  attacks  upon  Aristotle! 
The  Jesuits  employed  the  Peripatetic  tenets  in  arguing 
against  free-thinkers  like  Descartes.  Even  to  the  pres- 
ent day  the  manuals  of  philosophy  in  Roman  Catholic 
eccclesiastical  establishments  are  a  resume  of  Aris- 
totle. 

Until  the  seventeenth  century,  when  the  authority  of 
Aristotle  was  questioned,  "his  disciples  could  always 
point  with  scorn  at  the  endeavors  Avhich  had  as  yet 
been  made  to  supplant  it,  they  could  ask  whether  the 
wisdom  so  long  reverenced  was  to  be  set  aside  for  the 
fanatical  reveries  of  Paracelsus,  the  unintelligible  ideas 
of  Bruno,  or  the  arbitrary  hypotheses  of  Telesio."f  But 
in  the  seventeenth  century  modern  philosophy  took  a 
new  and  splendid  start  in  Bacon  and  Descartes,  while 
modern  science  commenced  its  glorious  career  with 
Galileo,  Kepler,  and  Newton.     Bacon,   with  his  rich 

*  Hallam's  "  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe. "    Part 
I.,  chap.  iii. 
t  Hallam's  Introduction.    Part  m.,  chap.  iii. 


ARISTOTLE.  169 

scientific  imagination  and  his  stately  language,  was  a 
fitting  herald  of  the  new  era.  lie  sometimes  reflects 
the  spirit  of  Ramus  or  Patricius,  and  applies  to  Aris- 
totle harsli  terms  whicli  were  rather  merited  by  the 
scholastic  pedants  who  had  been  Aristotelians  only  in 
the  letter.  Could  the  Stagirite  himself  have  returned 
to  the  earth  at  this  moment,  he  would  doubtless  have 
declared  for  Galileo  and  Bacon  against  the  Peripatetics. 
Aristotelianism  was  not  refuted  in  Europe,  but  its  long 
day  was  now  past;  it  was  superseded  and  quietly  put 
aside  when  other  and  fresher  subjects  of  interest  came 
to  fill  men's  minds.  Bacon  contributed  to  this  result, 
not  by  railing  at  the  "categories"  and  the  "syllogism," 
but  by  exciting  people's  fancy  with  suggestions  of  the 
extension  of  human  power  to  be  gained  by  researches 
into  nature — suggestions  which  subsequent  results  have 
verified  a  hundred-fold. 

From  henceforth  it  became  impossible  for  an  educat- 
ed man  to  be  an  Aristotelian,  because  however  much  he 
might  in  his  youth  have  learned  from  Aristotle,  there 
was  so  much  more  to  be  learned  which  was  not  to  be 
found  in  Aristotle,  that  Aristotelianism  could  only  con- 
stitute a  portion  of  his  culture..  In  the  Middle  Ages  it 
had  constituted  the  whole  of  culture;  but  that  time  had 
gone  by,  and  in  the  modern  world  it  became  possible  to 
gain  elsewhere  even  most  of  that  which  the  study  of 
Aristotle  had  to  offer.  The  best  of  Aristotle's  thought 
had  now  come  to  be  the  common  property  of  the  world, 
and  men  could  become  good  logicians  without  reading 
the  "Organon,"  and  without  being  conscious  of  the 
obligations  which,  after  all,  they  owed  to  its  author. 

Perhaps  the  period  of  the  greatest  neglect  which  the 
memory  of  Aristotle  underwent  since  the  Christian  era 
was  the  eighteenth  century.     This  was  a  period  of  an- 


170  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY, 

titliesis  to  medisevalisin,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  period 
of  mechanical  philosopliy  and  shallow  learning.  At 
the  English  universities  all  studies,  except  perhaps 
mathematics  and  verbal  scholarship,  were  at  a  low 
ebb.  Only  small  portions  of  Aristotle  were  taught,  and 
these  were  ill  taught,  without  reference  to  their  context 
and  real  significance.  But  with  the  nineteenth  century 
there  came  a  restitution  of  the  honors  of  the  Stagirite, 
who  was  now  regarded  in  his  proper  light — that  is  to 
say,  historically,  and  not  as  if  he  were  an  authority  for 
modern  times.  This  came  about  with  the  rise  of  the 
great  German  philosophies.  There  have  been  two  great 
periods  of  philosophy  in  the  world:  the  period  of  Greek 
philosophy  in  the  5th  and  4th  centuries  B.C.,  and  that 
of  German  philosophy  during  the  first  part  of  the  pres- 
ent century.  And  there  is  a  certain  affinity  between 
the  two.  Kant  and  Hegel  have  more  in  common  with 
Plato  and  Aristotle  than  they  have  either  with  the  scho- 
lastic philosophy  or  with  the  psychological  systems  of 
the  last  century.  An  age  which  produced  Kant  and 
Hegel  was  likely  to  appreciate  their  ancient  forerun- 
ners; and  Hegel  advocated  the  study  of  the  works  of 
Aristotle  as  "the  noblest  problem  of  classical  philology." 
The  Germans  have  applied  themselves  to  this  problem 
with  splendid  success,  especially  Inimanuel  Bekker, 
Brandis,  Zeller,  Bonitz,  Spengel,  Stahr,  Bernays,  Rose, 
and  many  others  who  might  be  mentioned.  The  great 
Berlin  edition  of  the  works  of  Aristotle,  brought  out 
under  tjie  auspices  of  the  Prussian  Royal  Academy,  is 
a  monument  of  their  labors.  We  have  seen  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  reputation  through  which  Aristotle  has  passed 
— how  at  different  times  he  was  partially  known,  mis 
conceived,  over-rated,  under-rated,  and  both  praised  an^ 
blamed  on  wrong  grounds.    Perhaps  at  no  previous  timb 


ARISTOTLE,  171 

has  he  been  more  correelly  known  and  estimated  than 
he  is  at  prerent. 

The  various  services  of  Aristotle  to  mankind  liave 
been  to  some  extent  indicated  in  the  foregoing  pages. 
To  attempt  to  summarize  them  all  would  be  vain;  but 
perhaps  it  may  be  said,  in  a  word,  that  Aristotle  has 
contributed  more  than  any  one  man  to  the  scientific 
education  of  the  world.  The  amount  of  the  influence 
which  he  has  exercised  may  partly  be  inferred  from  the 
traces  which  his  system  has  left  in  all  the  languages  of 
modern  Europe.  Our  everyday  conversation  is  full  of 
Aristotelian  "fossils,"  that  is,  remnants  of  his  peculiar 
phraseology.  These  mostly  come  through  Latin  ren- 
derings of  his  terms,  though  sometimes  the  original 
Greek  form  is  preserved.  The  following  are  a  few 
specimens  of  these  fossils:  "Maxim"  is  the  major  pre- 
miss of  the  Aristotelian  syllogism.  "Principle  "  has  the 
same  meaning — it  comes  from  jprincipium,  the  Latin  for 
"beginning"  or  "starting-point,"  which  was  one  of  Ar- 
istotle's terms  for  a  major  premiss.  "Matter"  comes 
from  materks,  the  Latin  for  "timber"  (see  above,  p. 
147);  when  we  say  "it  does  not  matter,"  or  it  makes  a 
"material"  difference,  we  are  indebted  to  Aristotle  for 
our  words.  "Form,"  "end,"  "final  cause,"  "motive," 
"  energy,"  "actually,"  "  category,"  "  predicament"  (the 
latter  of  these  two  being  Latin  for  the  former),  the 
"mean"  and  the  "extremes,"  "habit"  (both  in  the 
sense  of  "moral  habit"  and  of  "dress"),  "faculty,'' 
and  "quintessence,"  are  all  purely  Peripatetic;  while 
the  terms  "Metaphysics"  and  "  Katural  History,"  are 
derived  from  two  of  the  titles  of  Aristotle's  works. 

Aristotle,  the  strongest  of  the  ancients  and  the  oracle 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  must  always  hold  a  place  of  honor 
in  the  history  of  European  thought.     Writings  which 


172  THE  ELZEVIR  LIBRARY. 

have  interested  and  influenced  mankind  so  deeply  and 
tlirouj^li  so  many  centuries  can  never  fall  into  con- 
tempt, even  though  they  may  be  devoid  of  the  graces 
of  style  and  though  the  matter  in  them  may  be  either 
superseded  or  else  absorbed  into  the  treatises  of  other 
authors.  Nor  is  it  from  mere  curiosity — from  a  merely 
antiquarian  or  historical  point  of  view — tliat  the  works 
of  the  Stagirite  continue  to  be  studied.  As  long  as  the 
process  of  higher  education  in  modern  Europe  consists 
so  largely  in  imbibing  the  mind  with  the  literature  of 
classical  antiquity,  so  long  will  a  study  of  certain  works 
of  Aristotle  remain  as  one  of  tlie  last  stages  of  that 
process.  Those  works — especially  the  ' '  Rhetoric, "  ' '  Art 
of  Poetry,"  "Ethics,"  and  "Politics" — have  a  remarka- 
ble educational  value.  They  form  an  introduction  to 
philosophy;  they  invite  comparison  of  ancient  and  mod- 
ern ways  of  thinking;  they  offer  rich  stores  of  information 
as  to  human  nature — so  much  the  same  in  all  ages;  and 
tliey  train  the  mind  to  follow  the  Aristotelian  method 
of  analytic  insight.  This  method  consists  in  concentra- 
tion of  the  mind  upon  the  subject  in  hand,  marshalling 
together  all  the  facts  and  opinions  attainable  upon  it, 
and  dwelling  on  these  and  scrutinizing  and  comparing 
them  till  a  light  flashes  on  the  whole  subject.  Such  is 
the  procedure  to  be  learnt,  by  imitation,  from  Aristotle. 


PLATO 


BY 

CLIFTON  W.  COLLmS,  M.  A. 

H.  M.  INSPECT -OH  Of  SCHOOLS, 


NEW  YOEK: 

JOEHSr  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 

1888. 


INTEODUOTORY  NOTE. 


The  Dialogues  of  Plato  have  been  grouped  together 
in  this  little  volume  as  their  subject  or  argument 
sremed  to  suit  the  requirements  of  the  Chapter  in 
which  they  will  be  found,  without  regard  to  chrono- 
logical order.  Nor  has  the  vexed  question  of  the 
"Platonic  Canon,"  or  what  are  or  are  not  the  gen- 
uine works  of  Plato,  been  entered  upon  in  these 
pages.  All  the  Dialogues  attributed  to  him  in 
Stallbaum's  edition  are  accepted  here,  and  discussed 
with  more  or  less  brevity,  as  their  interest  for  the 
general  reader  seemed  to  require. 

The  writer  desires  to  express  his  deep  sense  of  his 
obligations  to  Professor  Jowett  for  permission  to  use 
his  valuable  translation  of  Plato,  from  which  most 
of  the  quotations  found  in  the  text  (including  the 
extracts  marked  "  J.  ")  have  been  made.  Those 
marked  "D.  "are  taken  from  the  translation  of  the 
*'  Republic  "  by  Messrs  Davies  and  Vaughan. 

The  other  authorities  most  frequently  consulted  are 
Grote's  '  Plato  and  the  other  Companions  of  Socrates, ' 
Whewell's  '  Platonic  Dialogues, '  Zeller's  *  Socrates  and 
Socratic  Schools, '  and  the  Histories  of  Philosophy 
by  Maurice,  Ritter,  and  Ueberweg. 

The  writer  also  wishes  to  record  his  sense  of  the 
kindness  of  H.  W.  Chandler  (Waynflete  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  at  Oxford),  who  was  good  enough 
to  read  through  the  proofs  of  the  first  four  chapters  of 
this  volume. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Chap,      I.  Lifeofriato 1 

'  *         II.  Philosophers  and  Sophists _     17 

Dialogues:  Paimenides  —  Sophistes 
— Protagoras — Gorgias  —  Hippias 
— Euthydemus, 

*  *        III.  Socrates  and  Ilis  Friends 44 

Symposium — Phaedrus —  Apology — 
Crito— Phaedo. 

**        rV.  Dialogues  of  Search 73 

Laches —  Charm  ides —  Lysis— Meno 
— Euthyphro— Cratylus— Thesete- 
tus. 

V.  Plato's  Ideal  States 98 

"         VL  The  Myths  of  Plato 131 

••       VII.  Religion,  Morality,  and  Art 151 

*'     VIIL  Later  Piatonism 165 


PLATO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

LIFE    OF   PLATO. 

"  Eagle  I  why  soarest  thou  above  that  tomb,— 
To  what  sublime  and  star-y-paven  home 

Floatest  thou? 
I  am  the  imag3  of  great  Plato's  spirit, 
Ascending  Heaven;  Athens  doth  inherit 
His  corpse  below." 
^(Epitaph  translated  from  the  Greek  by  Shelley.) 

Plato  was  born  at  JSgina  ia  b.c.  430 — the  same 
year  that  Pericles  died — of  a  noble  family  which  traced 
its  descent  from  Codrus,  the  last  hero-king  of  Attica. 
Little  is  told  us  of  his  early  years  beyond  some  stories 
of  the  divinity  which  hedged  him  in  his  childhood, 
and  a  dream  of  Socrates,*  in  which  he  saw  a  cygnet 
fly  towards  him,  nestle  in  his  breast,  and  then  spread 
its  wings  and  soar  upwards,  singing  most  sweetly.  The 
next  morning  Ariston  appeared,  leading  his  son  Plato 

*  Athenaeus  tells  us  of  another  dream,  by  no  means  so  com- 
plimentary to  Plato,  in  which  his  spirit  appeared  to  Socrates  in 
the  form  of  a  crow,  which  planted  its  claws  firmly  in  the  bald 
head  of  the  philosopher,  and  flapped  its  wings*  The  interpreta^ 
tion  of  this  dream,  according  to  Socrates  (or  Athenseus),  was, 
that  Plato  would  tell  many  lies  about  him. 


2  PLATO. 

to  the  philosopher,  and   Socrates  knew  that  his  dream 
was  fufiUed. 

It  is  easy  to  fill  in  the  meagre  outlines  of  the  bi- 
ography as  given  us  by  Diogenes  Laertius;  for  Plato 
lived  in  a  momentous  time,  when  Athens  could  not  af- 
ford to  let  any  of  her  sons  stand  aloof  from  military  serv- 
ice, and  when  every  citizen  must  have  been  more  or  less 
an  actor  in  the  history  of  his  times.  Plato  of  course 
underwent  the  usual  training  of  an  Athenian  gentleman, 
such  as  he  has  sketched  it  himself  in  the  "Protagoras;" 
first  attending  the  grammar  school,  where  he  learnt  his 
letters,  and  committed  to  memory  long  passages  from 
the  poets,  which  he  was  taught  to  repeat  with  proper 
emphasis  and  modulation ;  and  the  frequent  quotations 
from  Homer  in  his  Dialogues  prove  how  thoroughly  this 
part  of  his  mental  training  was  carried  out.  *  Then  he 
was  transferred  to  the  Master  who  was  to  infuse  harmony 
and  rhythm  into  his  soul  by  means  of  the  lyre  and  vocal 
music.  Then  he  learned  mathematics,  for  which  sub- 
ject he  showed  a  special  aptitude;  and  we  hear  of  him 
wrestling  in  the  palaestra,  where  his  breadth  of  shoul- 
ders stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  winning  prizes  at  the 
Isthmian  games.  He  also  found  time  to  study  ' '  the 
old  masters  "  of  philosophy,  and  (as  might  be  expected) 
the  two  whose  works  attracted  him  the  most  were  Her- 
aclitus  and  Pythagoras.     The  melancholy  of  the  one, 

*  Several  pieces  of  poetry  bearing  Plato's  name  have  come 
down  to  us;  and  there  is  a  graceful  epitaph  on  ''Stella," 
ascribed  to  him,  which  Shelley  has  thus  translated : 

"  Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the  living, 

Till  thy  fair  light  had  fled; 
Now  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus,  giving 
New  splendor  to  the  dead." 


LIFE  OF  PLATO.  .   J 

and  the  mysticism  of  the  other,  found  an  echo  in  his 
own  thoughts. 

He  was  fifteea  at  the  time  of  the  expedition  to  Sicily, 
and  was  probably  among  the  crowd  which  watched  the 
great  fleet  sail  out  of  the  harbor  of  Piraeus  in  all  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  war ;  and  two  years  after- 
wards he  must  have  shared  in  the  general  despair,  when 
the  news  came  that  the  fleet  and  flower  of  the  army 
had  perished,  and  with  them  the  hopes  of  Athens. 

Then  Decelea  (only  fifteen  miles  from  the  city)  was 
fortified  by  the  Spartans,  and  proved  a  very  thorn  in 
the  side  of  Attica;  for  flocks  and  herds  were  destroyed, 
slaves  fled  thither  in  numbers,  and  watch  had  to  be 
kept  by  the  Athenians  night  and  day,  to  check  the 
continual  sallies  made  from  thence  by  the  enemy. 
Plato  was  now  eighteen,  and  was  enrolled  in  the  list 
"which  corresponded  to  the  modern  Landwehr,  and  had 
to  take  his  share  in  that  harassing  garrison  duty  which 
fell  on  rich  and  poor  alike,  when  the  citizens  (as 
Thucydides  tells  us)  slept  in  their  armor  on  the  ram- 
parts, and  Athens  more  resembled  a  military  fort  than 
a  city. 

Then  followed  the  loss  of  prestige  and  the  defection 
of  allies;  for  the  subject  islands  either  openly  revolted 
or  intrigued  secretly  with  Sparta;  and  Alcibiades,  the 
only  Athenian  who  could  have  saved  Athens,  was  an 
exile  and  a  renegade,  using  Persian  gold  to  levy  Spar- 
tan troops  against  his  country.  Suddenly  the  Athe- 
nians, with  the  energy  of  despair,  made  a  prodigious 
effort  to  recover  the  empire  of  the  seas,  which  was 
passing  from  their  hands.  They  melted  down  their 
treasures;  they  used  the  reserve  fund  which  Pericles 
had  stored  up  for  such  an  emergency;  and  within  thirty 
days  they  had  equipped  a  fresh  fleet  of  over  a  hundred 


I  PLATO. 

sail.  Then  followed  a  general  levy  of  the  citizens; 
every  man  who  could  bear  arms  was  pressed  into  the 
service ;  freedom  was  promised  to  any  slave  who  would 
volunteer;  and  even  the  Knights  (of  whom  Plato  was 
one)  forgot  the  dignity  of  their  order,  hung  up  their 
bridles  in  the  Acropolis,  and  went  on  board  the  fleet  as 
marines.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Plato 
shunned  hi6  duty  at  such  a  crisis;  and  we  may  there- 
fore conclude  that  he  volunteered  with  the  rest,  served 
with  the  squadron  which  relieved  Mitylene,  and  was 
present  at  the  victory  of  Arginusse  shortly  afterwards. 

Soon  Alcibiades  was  recalled,  and  his  genius  gave  a 
different  character  to  the  war;  but  the  success  of  the 
Athenians  was  only  temporary.  Lysander  came  upon 
the  scene;  and  on  the  fatal  shore  of  ^gos-Potami  the 
Athenian  fleet  was  destroyed — almost  without  a  blow 
being  struck.  Then  followed  the  blockade  of  Athens,- 
the  consequent  famine,  and  the  despair  of  the  citizens, 
with  the  foe  without  and  two  rival  factions  within, 
till  at  last  the  city  surrendered,  and  the  long  walls 
were  pulled  down  to  the  sound  of  Spartan  music. 

We  have  no  clue,  beyond  a  casual  reference  in 
Xenophon,  as  to  what  part  Plato  took  in  subsequent 
events.  His  own  tastes  and  sympathies  lay  with 
the  few;  and  all  his  intimate  friends  were  among 
the  oligarchs  (the  "good  men  and  true,"  as  they  termed 
themselves),  who  by  a  coup  d'etat,  effected  what  is 
known  as  the  Revolution  of  the  Four  Hundred.  A 
section  of  these  formed  the  execrated  Thirty  Tyrants. 
Critias,  the  master-spirit  of  this  body,  was  Plato's 
uncle,  and  probably  had  considerable  influence  over 
him.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  we  find  Plato  attracted 
by  the  programme  in  which  the  oligarchs  pledged 
themselves  to  reform  abuses  and  to  purge  the  state 


LIFE  OF  PLATO.  $ 

of  evil-doers;  and  for  a  time,  at  all  events,  he  was  an 
avowed  partisan  of  the  Thirty.  But  they  soon  threw 
off  the  mask,  and  a  Reign  of  Terror  followed,  which 
made  their  name  forever  a  byword  among  the  Athe- 
nians. Plato  was  probably  in  the  first  instance  dis- 
gusted by  the  jealous  intolerance  of  this  new  party, 
which  drove  the  aged  Protagoras  into  exile,  and  pro- 
scribed philosophical  lectures ;  but  when  this  intoler- 
ance was  followed  by  numerous  assassinations,  he  was 
utterly  horrified,  and  at  once  withdrew  from  public 
life,  and  from  all  connection  with  his  former  friends. 

There  was  little  indeed  to  tempt  a  man  of  Plato's 
spirit  and  principles  to  meddle  with  the  politics  of  his 
day.  The  great  statesmen,  and  with  them  the  bloom 
and  brilliancy  of  the  Periclean  age,  had  passed  away; 
and  the  very  name  of  Pericles,  as  De  Quincey  says, 
"  must  have  sounded  with  the  same  echo  from  the 
past  as  that  of  Pi  it  to  the  young  men  of  our  first 
Reform  Bill."  The  long  war  had  done  its  work. 
Not  only  had  it  wellnigh  exhausted  the  revenues  and 
strength  of  Athens,  but  it  had  brought  in  its  train, 
as  necessary  consequences,  ignoble  passions,  a  selfish 
party  spirit,  a  confusion  of  moral  sentiments,  and  an 
audacious  skepticism,  which  were  going  far  to  under- 
mine the  foundations  of  right  and  wrong.  One  revo- 
lution had  followed  another  so  rapidly  that  public 
confidence  in  the  constitution  was  fast  disappearing; 
and  the  worst  symptom  of  a  declining  nation  had 
already  shown  itself,  in  that  men  of  genius  and  honor 
were  beginning  to  despair  of  their  countiy  and  to  with- 
draw from  public  life.  We  can  well  believe  that  the 
picture  which  Plato  draws  of  the  Philosopher  in  his 
"  Republic  "  was  no  fancy  sketch: 


e  PLATO. 

Those  who  belong  to  this  small  class  have  tasted  how  sweet 
and  blessed  a  possession  philosophy  is,  and  have  also  seen  and 
been  satisfied  of  the  madness  of  the  multitude,  and  known  that 
there  is  no  one  who  ever  acts  honestly  in  the  administration  of 
states,  nor  any  helper  who  will  save  any  one  who  maintains  the 
cause  of  the  just.  Such  a  savior  would  be  Uke  a  man  who  has 
fallen  among  wild  beasts,  unable  to  join  in  the  wickedness  of  his 
friends,  and  would  have  to  throw  away  his  life  before  he  had 
done  any  good  to  himself  or  others.  And  he  reflects  upon  all  this, 
and  holds  his  peace,  and  does  his  own  business.  He  is  like  one 
who  retires  under  the  shelter  of  a  wall  in  the  storm  of  dust  and 
sleet  which  the  driving  wind  hurries  along;  and  when  he  sees  the 
rest  of  mankind  full  of  wickedness,  he  is  content  if  only  he  can 
live  his  own  life,  and  be  pure  from  evil  or  unrighteousness,  and 
depart  in  peace  and  goodwill,  with  bright  hopes.* 

The  next  twelve  years  must  have  been  the  period  of 
Plato's  greatest  intimacy  with  Socrates;  and  he  was  the 
great  philosopher's  constant  companion  until  the  day  of 
his  death.  He  had  now  no  ties  to  bind  him  to  Athens 
— perhaps,  indeed,  he  did  not  feel  secure  there— and  he 
went  to  live  at  Megara  with  his  friend  Euclid.  Then 
he  set  out  upon  those  travels  of  which  we  hear  so 
much  and  know  so  little;  "and"  (says  an  old  his- 
torian), "whilst  studious  youth  were  crowding  to 
Athens  from  every  quarter  in  search  of  Plato  for 
their  master,  that  philosopher  was  wandering  along 
the  banks  of  the  Nile  or  the  vast  plains  of  a  barbarous 
country,  himself  a  disciple  of  the  old  men  of  Egypt,  "f 
After  storing  his  mind  with  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyp- 
tians, Plato  is  said  to  have  gone  on  to  Palestine  and 
Phoenicia — to  have  reached  China  disguised  as  an  oil 
merchant — to  have  had  the  "  Unknown  God"  revealed 
to  him  by  Jewish  rabbis — and  to  have  learned  the 
secrets  of  the  stars  from  Chaldasan  astronomers.  But 
these  extended  travels  are  probably  a  fiction. 

*  Republic,  iv.  (Jowett.) 
t  Valerius  Maximus.  quoted  in  Lewes'  Hist,  of  Philos.,  i.  200. 


LTFE  OF  PLATO.  'f^ 

His  visit  to  Sicily,  however,  rests  on  better  evidence 
He  made  a  journey  thither  in  the  year  387  B.C.,  with 
the  object  of  witnessing  an  eruption  of  Mount  Etna — 
already  fatal  to  one  philosopher,  Empedocles.  On  his 
way  he  stayed  at  Tarentum  with  his  friend  Archytas, 
the  great  mathematician,  and  a  member  of  the  Pytha- 
gorean brotherhood.  This  order — which,  like  the 
Jesuits,  was  exclusive,  ascetic,  and  ambitious — had 
formerly  had  its  representatives  in  every  city  of  Magna 
Graecia,  and  had  influenced  their  political  history  ac" 
cordingly.  Even  then  their  traditions  and  mystic 
ritual,  as  well  as  the  ability  shown  by  individual 
members,  daily  attracted  new  converts.  Among  these 
was  Dion,  the  young  brother  in-law  of  Dionysius, 
Tyrant  of  Syracuse.  Dion  was  introduced  by  the 
Pythagoreans  to  Plato^  and  their  acquaintance  soon 
warmed  into  a  friendship  which  has  become  historicaL 
There  was  much  on  both  sides  that  was  attractive.  In 
Plato,  Dion  found  the  friend  who  never  flattered,  the 
teacher  who  never  dogmatized,  the  companion  who  was 
never  wearisome.  The  gracious  eloquence,  the  charm 
of  manner,  the  knowledge  of  life,  and,  above  all,  the 
generous  and  noble  thoughts  so  frankly  expressed  by 
Plato,  must  have  had  the  same  effect  upon  him  as  the 
conversation  of  Socrates  had  upon  Alcibiades.  His 
heart  was  touched,  his  enthusiasm  was  kindled,  and  he 
became  a  new  man.  There  dawned  upon  him  the  con- 
ception of  another  Syracuse, — freed  from  slavery,  and 
from  the  oppressive  presence  of  foreign  guards — self- 
governed,  and  with  contented  and  industrious  citizens 
— and  Dion  himself,  the  author  of  her  liberties  and  the 
founder  of  her  laws,  idolized  by  a  grateful  people. 

These  day-dreams  had  a  strong  effect  on  Dion;  and 
Plato  partly  shared  in  his  enthusiasm.     As  in  his  own 


6  PLATO. 

model  Republic,  all  might  be  accomplished  "  if  philos- 
ophers were  kings."  Even  as  things  were,  if  Diony- 
sius  would  but  look  with  a  favorable  eye  upon  PJato 
and  his  teaching,  much  might  he  done  in  the  way  of 
easing  the  yoke  of  tyranny  which  pressed  so  heavily 
upon  the  wretched  Syracusans. 

Accordingly  Plato  visited  Syracuse  in  company  with 
Dion,  and  was  formally  presented  at  court.  But  the 
results  were  unsatisfactory.  It  was  not,  indeed,  likely 
that  the  philosopher,  who  was  the  sworn  foe  of  Tyranny 
in  the  abstract,  and  who  looked  upon  the  Tyrant  as  the 
incarnation  of  all  that  was  evil  in  human  nature,  would, 
either  by  flattery  or  plain  speaking,  convince  Dionysius 
of  the  error  of  his  ways.  Plato  had  several  interviews 
•with  Dionysius;  and  we  are  told  that  he  enlarged 
upon  his  favorite  doctrine  of  the  happiness  of  th^ 
virtuous  and  inevitable  misery  of  the  wicked,  till  all 
who  heard  him  were  charmed  by  his  eloquence,  except 
the  despot  himself,  who  in  a  rage  ordered  him  to  be 
taken  down  to  the  market-place  there  and  then,  and 
to  be  sold  as  a  slave  to  the  highest  bidder;  that  so  he 
might  put  his  own  philosophy  to  a  practical  test,  and 
judge  for  himself  if  the  virtuous  man  was  still  happy 
in  chains  or  in  prison-  Plato  was  accordingly  sold,  and 
was  "bought  in"  by  his  friends  for  twenty  minae. 
Another  account  is,  that  he  was  put  on  board  a  trireme 
and  landed  at  iEgina  on  the  way  home,  where  he  was 
sold,  and  bought  by  a  generous  stranger,  who  set  him 
at  liberty  and  restored  him  to  Athens.  In  any  case, 
Plato  might  coasider  himself  fortunate  in  escaping  from 
such  a  lion's  den  as  the  court  of  the  savage  Dionysius; 
and  he  had  learnt  a  salutary  lesson,  that  theoretical 
politics  are  not  so  easily  put  into  practice  as  men  think, 


^LIFE  OF  PLATO.  ■  J 

and  that  caution  and  discretion  are  necessary  in  deal- 
ing with  the  powers  that  be. 

On  his  return  to  Athens,  weary  of  poUtics,  and 
wishing  to  escape  from  the  trumoil  and  distractions 
of  the  town,  he  retired  to  a  house  and  garden  wliich 
he  had  purchased  (or  inherited,  for  the  accounts  differ) 
at  Colonus,  There,  or  in  the  famous  "  olive  grove  ""  of 
tlie  Academy  close  by,  he  gave  lectures  to,  or  held  dis- 
cussions with,  a  disting-uished  and  constantly  increas- 
ing body  of  pupils.  Sauntering  among  the  tall  plane 
trees,  or  pacing  those  historic  colonnades,  might 
be  found  all  the  wit  and  genius  of  the  day, — men 
of  science  and  men  of  letters — artists,  poets,  and,  in 
greater  numbers  than  all,  would-be  philosophers.  The 
pupils  of  Plato,  unlike  the  poor  crushed  followers  of 
Socrates,  are  described  by  one  comic  poet  as  dandies 
with  curled  hair,  elegant  dress,  and  affected  walk ;  and 
we  are  told  by  another  how  the  master's  broad  shoulders 
towered  above  the  rest,  and  how  he  charmed  them  with 
his  sweet  speech,  "  melodious  as  the  song  of  the  cicalas 
in  the  trees  above  his  head.'*  N"o  one  must  suppose, 
however,  that  the  subjects  of  discussion  in  the  Academy 
were  trivial  or  frivolous.  Over  the  gates  was  to  be  seen 
the  formidable  inscription — "Let  none  but  Geometri- 
cians enter  here;"*  and,  according  to  Aristotle,  the  lec- 
tures were  on  the  Supreme  Good — i.e.,  the  One,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  Infinite. 

Twenty  years  thus  passed,  and  Plato's  eloquence  was 
daily  attracting  to  the  Academy  fresh  students  from  all 
parts  of  Greece,  when  he  received  a  second  summons 
to  visit  Sicily  from  his  old  friend  and  pupil  Dion,  with 
whom  he  had  kept   up  a  constant  correspondence. 

*  SirW.  Hamilton  considers  this  tradition  "at  least  six  cen- 
turies too  late."— Essays,  p.  27,  note 


\0  PLATO 

Dionysius  I.  was  dead,  and  his  empire,  "  fastened " 
(as  he  expressed  it)  "by  chains  of  adamant,"  had 
passed  to  his  son — a  young,  vain,  and  inexperienced 
prince,  who  had  not  inherited  either  the  ability  or 
energy  of  his  father.  Dion  still  retained  his  position  as 
minister  and  family  adviser,  and  there  seemed  to  be  at 
last  an  opening  under  the  new  regime  for  carrying  out 
his  favorite  scheme  of  restoring  liberty  to  the  Syracu- 
sans.  Accordingly  he  spared  no  pains  to  impress  the 
young  prince  with  the  wisdom  and  eloquence  of  Plato; 
and  so  successfully  did  he  work  upon  his  better  feel- 
ings, that  "Dionysius,"  says  Plutarch,  "was  seized 
with  a  keen  and  frantic  desire  to  hear  and  converse  with 
the  philosopher."  He  accordingly  sent  a  pressing  invi- 
tation to  Plato,  and  this  was  coupled  with  a  touching 
appeal  from  Archytas  and  other  Pythagoreans,  who 
looked  eagerly  forward  to  a  regeneration  of  Syracuse. 
Plato  (though  reluctant  to  leave  his  work  at  the  Acad- 
emy) felt  constrained  to  revisit  Sicily — "less  with  the 
hope  of  succeeding  in  the  intended  conversion  of 
Dionysius,  than  from  the  fear  of  hearing  both  himself 
and  his  philosophy  taunted  with  confessed  impotence, 
as  fit  only  for  the  discussion  of  the  school,  and  shrink- 
ing from  all  application  to  practice."  * 

He  was  received  at  Syracuse  with  every  mark  of 
honor  and  respect.  Dionysius  himself  came  in  his 
chariot  to  meet  him  on  landing,  and  a  public  sacrifice 
was  offered  as  a  thanksgiving  for  his  arrival.  And  at 
iirst  all  things  went  well.  There  was  a  reformation  in 
the  manners  of  the  court.  The  royal  banquets  were 
curtailed;  the  conversation  grew  intellectual;  and 
geometry  became  so  much  the  fashion  that  nothing 

*  Grote.  Hist,  of  Greece,  vii,  517. 


LIFE  OF  TLA  TO.  11 

was  to  be  seen  in  the  palace  but  triangles  and  figures 
traced  in  the  sand.  Many  of  the  foreign  soldiers  were 
dismissed;  and  at  an  anniversary  sacrifice,  when  tlio 
herald  made  the  usual  prayer — "  May  the  gods  long 
preserve  the  Tyranny,  and  may  the  Tyrant  live  forever," 
— Dionyiius  is  said  to  have  stopped  him  with  th ; 
words — "Imprecate  no  such  curse  on  me  or  mine." 
S )  deeply  was  he  impressed  by  Plato's  earnest  pleading 
in  behalf  of  liberty  and  toleration,  that  he  was  even 
prepared,  we  are  told,  to  establish  a  limited  monarchy 
in  place  of  the  existing  despotism,  and  to  restore  free 
government  to  those  Greek  cities  in  Sicily  which  had 
been  enslaved  by  his  father.  But  Plato  discounte- 
nanced any  such  immediate  action;  his  pupil  must  go 
through  the  prescribed  training,  must  reform  himself, 
and  be  imbued  with  the  true  philosophical  spirit, 
before  he  could  be  allowed  to  put  his  principles  into 
practice.  And  thus,  like  other  visionary  schemes  of 
reform,  the  golden  opportunity  passed  away  forever. 
The  ascendancy  of  "the  Sophist  from  Athens"  (as 
Plato  was  contemptuously  termed)  roused  the  jealousy 
'"f  the  old  Sicilian  courtiers,  and  their  slanders  poisoned 
the  mind  of  Dionysius,  whose  enthusiasm  had  already 
cooled.  He  grew  suspicious  of  the  designs  of  Dion, 
and,  without  giving  him  a  chance  of  defending  himself 
against  his  accusers,  had  him  put  on  board  a  vessel 
and  sent  to  Italy  as  an  exile.  Plato  himself  was  de- 
tained a  state  prisoner  in  the  palace,  flattered  and 
caressed  by  Dionysius,  who  appears  to  have  had  a 
sincere  admiration  and  regard  for  him,  but  at  the  same 
time  to  have  found  the  Platonic  discipline  too  severe  a 
trial  for  his  own  weak  and  luxurious  nature.  At  last 
he  was  allowed  to  depart,  after  given  a  conditional 
promise  to  return,  in  the  event  of  Dion  being  recalled 


12  PLATO. 

from  exile.  It  is  said  that,  as  he  was  emfearkitig, 
Dionysius  said  to  him — "When  thou  art  in  the 
Academy  witli  thy  pliilosophers,  thou  wilt  speak  ill  of 
me."  "God  forbid,"  was  Plato's  answer,  "that  we 
should  have  so  much  time  to  waste  in  the  Academy  as 
to  speak  of  Dionysius  at  all." 

Ten  yearj  later  Plato  is  induced — for  the  third  and 
last  time — ^by  the  earnest  appeal  of  Dionysius  to  revii^it 
Syracuse,  and  a  condition  of  his  coming  was  to  be  the 
recall  of  Dion.  As  before,  he  U  affectionately  wel- 
comed, and  is  treated  as  an  honored  guest ;  but  so  far 
from  Dion  being  recalled,  his  property, is  confiscated 
by  Dionysius,  and  his  wife  given  in  marriage  to  another 
man;  and  Plato  (who  only  obtains  leave  to  depart 
through  the  intercession  of  Archytas)  is  himself  the 
bearer  of  the  unwelcome  news  to  Dion,  whom  he  meets 
at  the  Olympic  games  on  his  way  home.  Dion  (as  we 
may  easily  imagine)  is  bitterly  incensed  at  this  last 
insult,  and  immediately  sets  about  levying  an  army  to 
assert  his  rights  and  procure  his  return  by  force.  At 
Olympia  he  parts  company  from  Plato,  and  the  two 
friends  never  meet  again.  The  remainder  of  Dion's 
eventful  career  (more  romantic,  perhaps,  than  that  of 
any  other  hero  of  antiquity)  has  been  well  sketched 
by  Mr.  Grote,  who  records  his  triumphant  entry  into 
Syracuse,  his  short-lived  popularity,  the  intrigues  and 
conspiracy  of  Heraclid?s,  whose  life  he  had  spared,  and 
his  base  assassination  by  his  friend  Callippus. 

Once  more  resto'ed  to  Athens,  Pluto  continued  his 
Ijcturcs  in  the  Academy,  and  also  employed  himsslf  in 
composing  tliose  philosophical  Dialogues  which  bear 
his  name,  and  of  which  some  thirty  have  come  down 
to  us.  Several  reasons  probably  contributed  to  male; 
Plato  throw  his  thoughts  into   this  form.      Fir?t,  ir 


LIFE  OF  PLATO,  13 

was  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  give  a  just  idea 
of  the  Socratic  method,  and  of  the  persistent  exami- 
nation through  which  Socrates  was  wont  to  put  all 
comers;  again,  he  wished  to  show  the  chain  of  argu- 
ment gradually  unwinding  itself,  and  hy  using  the  milder 
form  of  discussion  and  inquiry,  to  avoid  even  the  ap. 
pearance  of  dogmatism,  especially  as  he  must  have  often 
felt  that  he  was  threading  on  dangerous  ground.  Prolix 
and  wearisome  as  some  of  these  Dialogues  may  often 
seem  to  modern  ears,  we  must  remember  that  they  were 
the  first  specimens  of  their  kind;  that  they  were  writ- 
ten when  the  world  was  still  young,  when  there  was 
little  writing  of  any  sort,  and  when  romances,  essays, 
or  ''light  literature"  were  unknown;  while  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  clever,  highly-educated,  and 
sympathetic  "public"  ready  then  as  now  to  devour, 
to  admire,  and  to  criticise.  After  the  barren  wastes  of 
the  old  philosophy,  with  its  texts  and  axioms,  its  quo- 
tations from  the  poets,  and  crude  abstractions  from 
nature,  these  Dialogues  must  have  burst  upon  the 
Athenian  world  as  an  unexpected  oasis  upon  weary 
travelers  in  the  desert;  and  they  must  have  hailed 
with  delight  thege  fresh  springs  of  truth,  and  these 
new  pastures  for  thought  and  feeling.  As  a  new 
phase  of  literature,  we  may  well  believe  that  they  were 
received  with  the  same  interest  and  surprise  as  the 
appearance  of  the  '  Spectator '  in  the  last  century,  or 
the  *  Waverly  Novels '  at  the  beginning  of  our  own. 
They  were,  in  fact,  the  causeries  de  Lundiot  their  age. 
Plato  assuredly  knew  well  the  lively  and  versatile 
character  of  those  for  whom  he  was  writing.  The 
grave  and  didactic  tone  of  a  modern  treatise  on  philos- 
ophy would  have  fallen  very  flat  on  the  ears  of  an 
Athenian    audience,  accustomed  to  see    their    gods. 


14  PL  A  70. 

statesmen,  and  philosophers  brought  upon  the  stage  in 
a  grotesque  medley  and  imsparingly  caricatured.  But 
not  Momus  himself  (:is  a  Greek  would  have  said)  could 
have  turned  these  Dialogues  into  ridicule;  and  thdr 
very  faults — their  want  of  method  and  general  discur- 
siveness— ^must  have  been  a  relief  after  the  formal 
commonplaces  of  the  Sophists.  Plato  himself  makes 
no  pretence  of  following  any  rules  or  system. 
"^  Whither  the  argument  blo<vs,  we  will  follow  it/'  he 
says  in  the  "Republic,"  and  he  is  fond  of  telling  us 
that  a  philosopher  has  plenty  of  time  on  his  hands. 
But  the  vivacity  and  variety,  the  subtle  humor — 
which  can  never  be  exactly  reproduced  in  a  translation 
— the  charming  scenes  which  seive  as  a  framework  to 
the  discussion,  and,  above  all,  the  purity  and  sweet- 
ness of  the  language,  which  earned  for  the  writer  the 
title  of ''The  Attic  Bee," — all  these  were  reasons  for 
the  popularity  which  these  Dialogues  undoubtedly 
enjoyed. 

There  is  no  means  of  fixing  the  order  in  which  they 
were  written,  but  they  probably  all  belong  to  the  last 
forty  years  of  his  life.  A  story  is  indeed  extant  to  the 
effect  that  Socrates  heard  the  "  Lysig  "  read  to  him, 
and  exclaimed — "  Good  heavens!  what  a  heap  of  false- 
hoods this  3'oung  man  tells  about  me!  "but  Socrates 
had  in  all  probability  died  some  years  before  the 
"  Lysis  "  was  published.  The  speakers  in  these  Dialc- 
jrucs  are  no  more  historical  than  the  characters  in 
Shakespeare's  plays,  and  Plato  was  (perhaps  purposely) 
careless  of  dates  and  names.  But  the  personages  thus 
introduced  serve  their  purpose.  They  give  a  life  and  a 
reality  to  the  scenes  and  conversations  which  is  want- 
ing in  Berkeley's  Dialogues,  and  in  all  modern  imita- 
tions, and  their  tempers  and  peculiarities  are  touched 


LIFE  OF  PLATO.  15 

by  a  master-hand.  But  there  is  one  character  whicli 
Plato  never  paints,  and  that  is— his  own.  Except  in 
two  casual  allusions,  he  never  directly  or  indirectly  in- 
troduces himself ;  and  no  one  can  argue,  from  the  in- 
ternal evidence  of  his  writings,  as  to  what  he  was  or 
was  not.  Like  Shakespeare,  he  deserves  Coleridge's 
epithet  of  "myriad-minded,"  for  he  appears  to  us  in 
all  shapes  and  characters.  He  was  ''skeptic,  dogma- 
X\it,  religious  mystic  and  inquisitor,  mathematical  phi- 
losopher, artist,  poet— all  in  one,  or  at  least  all  in  succes- 
sion, during  the  fifty  years  of  his  philosophical  life."* 
There  is  one  pervading  feature  of  similarity  in  all  the 
Dialogues,  and  that  is,  the  style. f  If  Jove  had  spoken 
Greek  (it  was  said  of  old),  he  would  have  spoken 
it  like  Plato;  and  Qiiintilian—  no  mean  critic- 
declared  that  his  language  soared  so  far  at  times  above 
the  ordinary  pros3,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  writer  was 
inspired  by  the  Delphic  Ora3le.  But  these  very  sen- 
tences which  seem  to  us  to  flow  so  easily,  and  which 
we  think  must  have  been  written  currente  calamo,  were 
really  elaborate  in  their  simplicity;  and  the  anecdote 
of  thirteen  different  versions  of  the  opening  sentence 
in  the  *' Republic,"  having  been  found  in  the  author's 
handwriting  is  probably  based  upon  fact. 

*  Grote's  Plato,  i.  214. 

t  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  himself  a  writer  of  purest  English,  has 
Kiveu  us  in  '  Realmah '  his  ideas  of  what  a  perfect  style  should 
b3.  Every  word  in  his  description  would  closely  apply  to  Plato, 
especially  the  concluding  lines;  .  .  .  "  and  withal  there  must 
b3  a  sense  of  felicity  about  it,  declaring  it  to  be  the  product  of 
a  happy  moment,  so  that  you  feel  it  will  not  happen  again  to 
that  man  who  writes  the  sentence,  nor  to  any  other  of  the  sona 
of  men,  to  say  the  like  things  so  choicely,  tersely,  mellifluously, 
and  completely-." —Realmah,  i.  175. 


IG  PLATO. 

Up  to  the  age  of  eighty  one,  Plato  continued  his  liter- 
ary work — "combing,  and  curling,  and  weaving,  and 
unweaving  his  writings  after  a  variety  of  fashions;"  * 
and  deaih,  so  Cicero  tells  us,  cime  upon  him  as  he 
was  seated  at  his  desk,  pen  in  hand.  He  was  buried 
among  the  olive-trees  in  his  own  garden;  and  his 
disciples  celebrated  a  yearly  festival  in  his  memory. 

As  might  be  expected,  such  a  man  did  not  escape 
satire  and  detraction  even  in  his  own  day.  To  say 
that  he  was  ridiculed  by  the  comic  poets,  is  merely  to 
say  that  he  paid  the  penalty  common  to  all  eminence 
at  Athens;  but  he  was  accused  of  vanity,  plagiarism, 
and  what  not,  by  writers  such  as  Antisthenes  and 
Aristoxenus,  whose  philosophy  might  have  taught 
them  better.  Athenaeus,  with  whom  no  reputation  is 
sacred,  devotes  six  successive  chapters  to  a  merciless 
attack  on  his  personal  character ;  and  besides  retailing 
some  paltry  anecdotes  as  to  his  being  fond  of  figs,  and 
inventing  a  musical  water  clock  which  chimed  the 
hours  at  night,  he  accuses  him  of  jealousy  and  malev- 
olence towards  his  brother  philosophers,  and  tells  a 
story  to  show  his  arrogance,  and  the  dislike  with  which 
his  companions  regarded  him.  On  the  same  evening 
that  Socrates  died  (,so  says  Athenaeus),  the  select  few 
who  had  been  with  him  in  the  prison,  met  together  at 
supper.  Ail  were  s.id  and  silent,  and  had  not  the 
heart  to  eat  or  drink.  But  Plato  filled  a  cup  with 
wine,  and  bade  them  be  of  good  cheer,  for  he  would 
worthily  fill  thtir  master's  place;  and  he  invited 
Apollodorus  to  drink  his  health,  and  passed  him  the 
cup.  But  Apollodorus  refused  it  with  indignation, 
and  said,  "  1  would  rather  have  pledged  Socrates  in 
his  hemlock,  than  pledge  you  in  this  wine." 

*  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  quoted  in  Sewell's  Dialogues 
of  Plato,  p.  55. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PHILOSOPHERS  AND   S0PHIST3. 

dialogues:     PARMENIDES — 30PHI5TES— protagoras — 
GORGIA8 — HIPPIAS— EUTHYDEMUS. 

"  Divine  Philosophy, 
Not  harsh  and  rugged,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute.'"— Milton. 

"Philosophy,"  says  Plato  in  his  'Theaetetus/  "begins 
in  wonder,  for  Iris  is  the  child  of  Thaumas."  It  is 
the  natural  impulse  of  the  savage,  wherever  he  sees 
force  and  motion  that  he  cannot  explain,  to  invent  a 
god;  and  so  the  <irst  stage  of  Science  is  a  sort  of 
Fetishism,  or  worship  of  the  powers  of  nature.  The 
Greeks,  especially  curious  and  inventive,  carried  this 
tendency  to  its  furthest  limits;  and  the  result  was  an 
elaborate  Mythology,  in  which  every  object  and  oper- 
ation in  the  physical  world  was  referred  to  a  special 
god.  Thus  the  thunder  was  caused  by  the  wrath  of 
Zeiis;  the  earthquake  was  produced  by  Poseidon; 
and  the  pestilence  by  tiie  arrows  of  Apollo.  Poets 
lV^.2  Homer  and  Hesiod  reduced  these  myths  to  a  sys- 
tem, and  perpetuated  them  in  their  verse;  and  so  it 
may  be  said  that  Greek  philosophy  springs  from 
poetry,  for  in  this  poetry  are  contained  the  germs  of 


18  PLATO. 

all  subsequent  thought.  Homer,  indeed,  has  been 
called  "the  Greek  Bible;"  and  every  Athenian 
gentleman  is  said  to  have  known  the  Iliad  aud 
Odyssey  by  heart.  Their  morality,  it  is  true,  was  of 
a  rough  and  ready  character,  suited  to  the  high  spirit 
of  heroic  times,  when  war  and  piracy  were  the  hero's 
proper  profession ;  but  there  are  everywhere  traces  of 
a  strict  code  of  honor  aud  a  kean  sen  e  of  rights  and 
duties.  Th'j  oath  and  the  marriage  tie,  the  claims  of 
a^e  and  weaknes3,  the  guest  and  the  f-upplient,  are  all 
respected;  and  though  all  stratagems  are  held  to  be 
fair  in  war,  Achilles,  the  poet's  model  hero,  tells  us 
that  his  soul  detests  the  liar  "  like  the  gates  of  hell." 

Ilesiod  looks  back  with  regret  to  the  heroes  of  this 
golden  time,  long  since  departed  to  the  islands  of  the 
blest.  His  own  lot  has  fallen  upon  evil  days;  the 
earth  has  lost  its  bloom ;  the  present  race  of  men  are 
sadly  degenerate;  and  Shame  and  Retribution,  the 
two  last  remaining  virtues,  have  gone  forever. 

Simonides  and  Theognis  complete  this  gloomy  pic- 
ture; they  and  the  other  "  Gnomic  "  poets,  fragments 
of  whose  writings  have  come  down  to  us,  preach  for 
the  most  part  a  prudential  morality,  unlike  the  cliival- 
rous  naivete  of  Homer,  and  expressed  in  mournfnl 
sentences  which  read  like  verses  from  Ecclesiastes. 
The  uncertainty  of  fortune,  the  inconstancy  of  friends, 
the  miseries  of  poverty  aud  sickness — these  are  the 
phases  of  life  which  strike  them  most. 

Then  come  the  "Seven  Wise  Men,"  of  whom 
Solon  was  one,  who  stand  on  the  border-land  of  ro- 
mance and  history,  like  the  Seven  Champions  of 
Christendom.  We  know  little  of  them  beyond  those 
aphorisms  ascribed  to  each  of  them,  and  said  to  have 
been  engraven  in  gold  on  the  gales  of  Delphi,  which 


j)iALooai:s.  19 

became  as  household  words  in  Greece,  and  some  of 
■nhich  have  found  their  way  into  modern  proverbs — 
"The  golden  mean,"  *'Know  thyself,"  "Virtue  is 
difficult,"  •*  Call  no  man  hrppy  till  he  dies."  Another 
of  the  seven  was  Tliales — half  star-gazer,  half  man  of 
business — honored  by  Aristotle  with  the  title  of  "the 
first  philosopher."  He  and  those  who  followed  him 
tried  to  discover  some  one  element  or  first  principle 
underlying  the  incessant  change  and  motion  which 
they  saw  in  the  world  around  them.  Thales  believed 
this  principle  to  be  Water— improving  on  the  old  myth 
of  Occanus,  the  eternal  river  that  girds  the  universe. 
Anaximander  thought  the  universe  originally  was  a 
balh  of  flames,  or  a  ring  of  fire  broken  up  into  sun, 
moon,  and  stars,  while  the  earth  remained  balanced 
like  a  column  in  the  centre  Anaximenes,  again,  said 
that  "Air  ruled  over  all  things;  and  the  Soul  being 
Air,  ruled  in  man."  Thus  these  three  Ionian  philos- 
ophers took  each  some  one  element  as  the  symbol  of  an 
abstract  idea. 

Then  came  Heraclitus  of  Ephesus,  surnamed  the 
Obscure, — "shooting,"  says  Plato,  "as  from  a  quiver, 
sayings  brief  and  dark.  He  is  oppressed  with  the  sense 
of  the  perpetual  change  in  nature.  Nothing  is  at  rest, 
all  is  in  continual  movement  and  progression.  Life 
and  time  are  like  a  stream  flowing  on  forever,  in  which 
thoughts  and  actions  appear  for  a  moment  and  then 
vanish.  Pythagoras,  again,  maintained  that  Number 
was  the  sacred  and  unchangeable  principle  by  which 
the  universe  was  regulated;  that  there  was  a  "music  of 
the  spheres;"  and  that  the  soul  itself  was  a  harmony 
imprisoned  in  the  body:  while  his  comtemporary  Dem- 
ocritus,  "the  first  materialist,"  held  that  by  some  law 


20  PLATO. 

of  necessity  countless  atoms  had  moved  together  in  thj 
void  of  space,  and  so  produced  a  world. 

Lastly,  the  Eleatics  took  higher  ground,  and  con- 
ceived tho  idea  of  one  eternal  and  absolute  Being  which 
alone  exists,  w^hile  non-existence  is  inconceivable. 
Plurality  and  change,  space  and  time,  are  merely  illu- 
sions of  the  senses.  This  doctrine  is  set  forth  at  some 
length  by  Parmenides,  the  founder  of  this  school  of 
thought,  in  an  epic  poem,  in  which  he  has  been  com. 
missioned,  he  says,  by  the  goddess  of  v.'isdom,  "to 
show  unto  men  the  unchangjable  heart  of  truth." 
Plato,  who  always  speaks  of  him  with  respect — "  more 
honored  than  all  the  rest  of  philosophers  put  together  " 
— has  given  his  name  to  one  of  his  Dialogues,  in  which 
h3  introduces  him  as  vi^^iting  Athens  in  his  old  age  in 
company  with  Zeno,  his  friend  and  pupil,  and  there 
discussing  his  theories  with  Socrates,  then  a  young  man 
of  twenty. 

The  Dialogue  turns  upon  the  ditficulties  involved  in 
the  famous  Eleatic  saying  that  "the  All  is  one,  and 
the  many  are  nought;"  but,  by  an  easy  transition,  the 
argument  in  the  first  part  of  the  Dialogue  discusses  the 
doctrine  of  Ideas — the  key-stone  of  Plato's  philosophy. 
This  doctrine  seems  to  have  grown  upoi  him,  and  en- 
grossed his  mind;  and  his  poetic  feeling  is  continually 
suggesting  additions  and  embellishments  to  it,  just  as 
an  artist  adds  fresh  touches  to  a  favorite  picture.  He 
admits  with  Heraclitus,  that  all  objjcts  of  sense  are 
fleeting  and  changeable;  and  he  admits  with  the  Eleat- 
ics that  Being  alone  can  really  be  said  to  exist ;  but  he 
blends  these  two  theories  together.  Everything  that 
we  can  name  or  see  has  its  eternalldea  or  prototype; 
and  this  particular  flower,  v/ith  its  sensible  bloom  and 
ff.ijrance,  ij  merely  the  transitory  image  or  expressiou 


PARMEMDES.  21 

of  th3  uuiversal  Flower  that  never  fades.  And  thus, 
far  removed  from  this  material  world  of  birth  and 
death,  change  and  decay,  Plato  conceived  another 
world  of  pure  and  p:;rf.ct  forms,  imperceptible  by 
earthly  senses  and  perceived  by  the  eye  of  reason  alone, 
each  form  in  itself  separate,  unchangeable,  and  ever- 
lasting, and  each  answering  to  some  visible  object  to 
which  it  imparts  a  share  of  its  own  divine  essence,  as 
the  sun  gives  light  to  nature. 

But  (objects  Parmenides  in  this  Dialogue,)  how  can 
you  bridge  over  the  gulf  which  separates  the  sensible 
from  the  Ideal  world?  How  do  these  earthly  imita- 
lations  of  the  Ideas  partake  of  the  essence  of  their  di- 
vine prototypes?  And  how  far  can  you  carry  your 
theory?  Have  the  meanest  as  well  as  the  noblest  ob- 
jects— hair  and  mud,  for  instance,  as  well  as  beauty 
and  truth — their  Ideal  Forms?  Again,  there  may  be 
Ideas  of  Ideas,  and  so  you  may  go  on  generalizing  to 
infinity.  Lastly,  they  cannot  be  only  conceptions  of 
the  mind;  while,  if  they  are  types  in  nature  and  have 
a  real  existence,  we  cannot  know  them;  for  all  human 
knowledge  is  relative,  and  to  comprehend  these  eter- 
nal and  absolute  Ideas,  we  should  require  an  Ideal 
and  absolute  knowledge,  such  as  the  gods  alone  can 
possess.  Of  ourselves,  therefore,  we  cannot  know 
these  Ideas;  and  yet,  unless  we  admit  that  absolute 
and  abstract  Ideas  exist,  all  discussion— nay,  all  phi- 
losophy— is  at  an  end. 

These  objections,  so  skillfully  put  by  Parmenides, 
are  not  answered  by  Plato  in  this,  or  indeed  in  any 
other  Dialogue;  and  he  thus  makes  out  a  strong  case 
against  his  own  favorite  theory.  Socrates  himself  is 
lectured  by  Parmenides  on  his  defective  mental  train- 
ing.    His  enthusiasm  (says  the  old  philosopher),  which 


22  PLATO. 

makes  him  "keen  as  a  Spartan  hound"  in  the  quest 
of  truth,  is  a  noble  impulse  in  itself;  but  it  will  be 
useless  unless  he,  so  to  speak,  reads  his  adversary's 
brief,  atid  studies  a  question  in  all  its  bearings,  trac- 
ing all  the  consequences  which  may  follow  from  the 
assumption  or  denial  of  some  hypothesis.  Above  all, 
Socrates  should  cultivate  "Dialectic,"*  which  alone 
can  enable  him  to  separate  the  ideal  from  the  sen- 
sible, and  is  an  indispensable  exercise,  although  most 
people  regard  it  as  mere  idle  talking. 

Parmenides  is  then  prevailed  upon  himself  to  give 
an  example  of  this  "laborious  pastime;  "  though,  as  he 
says,  he  shakes  with  fear  at  the  thought  of  his  self-im- 
posed task,  "like  an  old  race-horse  before  running  the 
course  he  knows  so  well."  He  selects  for  exarainaliou 
his  own  Eleatic  theory,  and  traces  the  consequences 
which  follow  from  the  contradictory  assumptions  that 
• '  One  is, "  and  '  *  One  is  not, "  We  need  not  follow  him 
through  the  mazes  of  this  chain  of  argument,  which 
result  after  all  in  two  contradictory  conclusions.  It  is 
doubtful  if  Plato  had  any  other  object  in  this  "leger- 
demain of  words"  than  to  stimulate  the  curiosity  of 
a  youthful  inquirer  like  Socrates  with  a  series  of  argu- 
ments as  puzzling  and  equivocal  as  the  riddle  in  his 
"Republic,"  to  which  Mr.  Grote  compares  them:  "A 
man  and  no  man,  seeing  and  not  seeing,  a  bird  and  no 
bird,  sitting  upon  wood  and  no  wood,  struck  and  did 
not  strike  it  with  a  stone  and  no  stone."  The  only 
difference  is,  that  in  one  case  the  author  knew  the 
solution  of  his  riddle;  while  it  may  be  doubted  if 
Plato  himself  held  the  key  to  the  enigmas  in  his 
"Parmenides." 

*  The  process  by  which  the  definitions  of  Logic  are  attained. 


PARMENIDES.  23 

la  this  Dialogue  we  are  iutroduced  also  to  Zeno 
— •' Parmenides' second  self" — the  able  exponent  of 
the  art  of  Dialectic,  and  a  type  of  a  new  stage  of  Greek 
thought  which  had  just  commenced  with  the  Sophists. 
The  appearance  of  these  professors  at  Athens  was  a 
sign  of  the  times.  Hitherto,  as  we  have  seen,  philos- 
ophy had  resulted  in  rough  abstractions  from  Nature, 
or  in  a  vague  Idealism ;  but  now  thought  was  directed 
to  the  practical  requirements  of  life,  and  the  Sophists 
supplied  a  recognized  want  in  the  education  of  the 
age.  They  were  the  professors  of  universal  knowl- 
edge; and,  above  all,  they  taught  Rhetoric— in  the 
view  of  an  Athenian  the  most  important  of  all  branches 
of  learning.  To  speak  with  fluency  and  dignity  was 
not  so  much  an  accomplishment  as  a  necessary  safe- 
guard at  Athens,  where  "Informers"  abounded,  where 
litigation  was  incessant,  and  where  a  citizen  was  liable 
to  be  called  upon  to  defend  his  life  and  property  any 
day  in  one  of  the  numerous  law-courts.  Again,  elo- 
quence, far  more  than  with  us,  was  a  source  of  success 
and  popularity  in  public  life;  and  as  a  French  soldier 
was  said  to  carry  a  marshal's  baton  in  his  knapsack,  so 
every  citizen  who  had  the  natural  or  acquired  gift  of 
eloquence  might  aspire  to  rise  from  the  ranks,  and  be- 
come president  of  Athens.  Provided  that  he  had  a 
ready  and  plausible  tongue,  neither  his  poverty  nor 
mean  descent  need  stand  in  his  way;  for  the  foremost 
place  in  Athens  had  been  occupied  in  succession  by  a 
tanner  and  a  lamp-seller.  The  small  number  of  citizens, 
as  compared  with  slaves,  made  political  power  more 
accessible  thm  in  our  over-grown  democracies;  and 
every  citizen  was  forced  to  become  part  and  parcel  of 
the  state  in  wliich  he  lived.  Moreover,  the  Greek 
Assembly  was  more  easily  moved  by  an  appeal  to  their 


24  PLATO. 

feelings  or  imagination,  especially  on  an  occasion  of 
strong  public  interest,  than  a  modern  House  of  Com- 
mons. Sometimes  their  enthusiasm  broke  through  all 
bounds,  and  Plato's  description  of  the  effect  produced 
by  a  popular  orator  is  probably  not  exaggerated. 

All  motives,  therefore — policy,  ambition,  self-defence 
— combined  to  induce  the  Athenian  to  learn  the  art 
of  speaking,  and  there  was  an  increasing  demand  for 
teachers.  The  Sophists  undertook  to  qualify  the  young 
aspirant  for  political  distinction;  to  teach  him  to  think, 
speak,  and  act  like  a  citizen,  to  convince  or  cajole  the 
Assembly,  to  hold  his  own  in  the  law-court,  and  gen- 
erally to  give  him  the  power  of  making  "the  worse 
seem  the  better  reason."  Their  lecture-rooms  were 
crowded ;  they  were  idolized  by  the  rising  generation; 
and  they  not  uncommonly  made  large  fortunes,  charg- 
ing often  as  much  as  fifty  drachmas  (about  two  guineas) 
a  lesson ;  for  few  of  them  would  have  the  magnanimity 
of  Protagoras,  who  h'ft  it  to  the  conscience  of  liis  pupils 
to  name  their  own  fees. 

The  Sophists  were  the  skeptics  and  rationalists  of 
their  times,  and  they  headed  the  reaction  against  the 
dogmatism  of  previous  philosophy.  According  to 
them, there  wcis  no  fixed  standard  of  morality ;  real  knowl- 
edge was  imposjible;  tradition  was  false;  religion  was 
the  invention  of  lying  prophets;  law  and  justice  were 
devices  of  the  strong  to  ensnare  the  weak ;  pleasure  and 
pain  were  the  only  criteria  of  right  and  wrong;  each 
mm  should  use  his  private  judgment  in  all  matters, 
and  do  that  which  seemed  good  in  his  own  eyes. 

We  can  hardly  estimate  the  mingled  feelings  of  fear 
and  dislike  with  which  an  average  Athenian  citizen 
would  regard  the  influence  undoubtedly  possessed  by 
this  class.     Patriotism  and  religious  prejudice  would 


SOPHlSTJiJS.  25 

intensify  the  hatred  against  these  foreign  skeptics;  and 
added  to  this  would  be  the  popular  antipathy  which 
has  in  all  times  shown  itself  against  scheming  lawyers 
and  ambitious  chuichmen — 

"  Chicane  in  furs,  and  casuistiy  in  lawn.'* 
For,  inasmuch  as  philosophy  was  closely  blended  with 
their  religion,  the  Sophist  would  seem  to  practice  a 
sort  of  intellectual  simony;  tampering  with  and  selling 
at  a  high  price  the  divinest  mysteries;  holding  the  keys 
of  knowledge  themselves,  but  refusing  to  impart,  ex- 
cept to  such  as  came  with  full  purses,  those  truths 
which  were  to  the  Greek  as  the  very  bread  of  life. 

Doubtless  Plato  had  sufficient  reason  to  justify  the 
repulsive  picture  which  he  has  drawn  of  the  Sophist  in 
several  of  his  Dialogues,  as  "the  charlatan,  the  for- 
eigner, the  prince  of  esprits  faux,  the  hireling  who  is 
not  a  teacher;  .  .  .  the  *  evil  one,' the  ideal  repre- 
sentative of  all  that  Plato  most  disliked  in  the  moral 
r.nd  intellectual  tendencies  of  his  own  age,  the  adver- 
sary of  the  almost  equally  ideal  Socrates."* 

In  the  Dialogue  called  The  Sophist,  an  attempt  is 
made  to  define,  by  a  regular  logical  process  c:dled 
"  dichotomy,"  the  real  na'ure  of  this  many-sided 
creature;  no  easy  task  says  Plato,' "for  the  animal  is 
troublesome,  and  hard  to  catch."  He  has  a  variety  of 
characters.  Firstly,  he  is  a  sort  of  hunter,  and  his  art 
is  like  the  angler's,  with  the  difference  that  he  is  a 
fishe?-  of  men,  and  baits  his  hook  with  pleasure, 
"haunting  the  rich  meadow-lands  of  generous  youth." 
Secondly,  he  is  like  a  retail  trader,  but  his  merchan- 
dise is  a  spurious  kiiowledge  which  he  buys  from 
others  or  fabricates  for  himself  as  he  wanders  from  city 

*Jo\vetf  s  Plato,  iii.  448, 


26  PL  A  TO. 

to  city.  Thirdly,  he  is  a  warrior,  but  his  tongue  is  his 
sword  with  which  he  is  eternally  wrangling  about  right 
and  wrong  for  money.  Fourthly,  since  education  puri- 
ties the  soul  by  casting  out  ignorance  or  the  false  con- 
ceit of  knowledge,  men  would  have  you  believe  that 
the  Sophist  does  this;  though  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is 
about  as  like  the  real  "purgerof  souls"  as  a  wolf  is 
a  dog.  Lastly,  this  creature  aspires  to  universal 
knowledge,  and  will  argue — ay,  and  teach  others  to 
argue — about  any  object  in  creation;  and,  like  a  clever 
painter,  he  will  impose  upon  you  the  appearance  for 
the  reality,  and  thus  he  steals  away  the  hearts  of  our 
young  men,  deceiving  their  ears  and  deluding  their 
senses,  while  he  disguises  his  own  ignorance  under  a 
cloud  of  words.  In  fact,  he  is  a  mere  imitator— and 
an  imitator  of  appearance,  not  of  reality. 

"But  how  "  (an  abjector  replies)  "can  a  man  be  said 
to  affirm  or  imitate  that  which  is  only  appearance,  and 
has  no  real  existence?"  This  quibble  is  followed  by  a 
perplexing  discussion  on  "  Not-Being  " — the  stumbling- 
block  of  Eleatic  philosophers.  To  us  nothing  can  be 
simpler  than  the  distinction  between  "this  is  not,"  i.e., 
does  not  exist — and  "this  is  not,"  i.e.,  is  not  true; 
but  so  oppressed  was  the  Eleatic  with  the  sense  of 
"  Being  "  as  alone  having  existence,  that  he  held  that 
no  reality  could  be  attached  to  non-being;  and  there- 
fore falsehood,  which  was  merely  the  expression  of 
non-being,  was  impossible.  Nothing  would  be  gained 
by  following  out  the  threads  of  this  difficult  argument; 
and  we  may  dismiss  the  Eleatic  theory  with  the  con- 
s'.lation  that,  as  Professor  Jowett  says,  Plato  has  effec- 
tually "laid  its  ghost  " — we  will  hope,  forever. 


PROTAGORAS. 


PROTAGORAS. 


The  opening  of  this  Dialogue  is  highly  dramatic, 
Socrates  is  awakened  before  daylight  by  the  young 
Hippocrates,  who  is  all  on  fire  to  see  and  hear  this  Pro- 
tagoras, who  has  just  come  to  Athens.  Socrates  calms 
his  excitement,  and  advises  him  to  be  sure,  before  he 
pays  his  money  to  the  great  Sophist,  that  he  will  get 
his  money's  worth;  for  it  is  a  rash  thing  to  commit  his 
soul  to  the  instruction  of  a  foreigner,  before  he  knows 
his  real  character,  or  whether  his  doctrines  are  for  good 
or  for  evil.  "  O  my  friend ! "  he  says,  earnestly,  ^'  pause 
a  moment  before  you  hazard  your  dearest  interests  on  a 
game  of  chance;  for  you  cannot  buy  knowledge  and 
carry  it  away  in  an  earthly  vessel:  in  your  own  soul 
you  must  receive  it,  to  b3  a  blessing  or  a  curse." 

Talking  thus  gravely  on  the  way,  they  arrive  at  the 
house  of  Callias,  who  had  spent  more  money  on  the 
Sophists — so  Plato  tells  us — than  any  other  Athenian 
of  his  times.  The  doorkeeper  is  surly,  and  at  fir*t 
refusas  to  admit  them,  thinking  that  his  master  has  had 
enough  of  the  Sophists  and  their  friends  already.  But 
at  last  they  enter,  and  find  a  large  company  already 
assembled  within.  Protagoras  himself  is  walking  up 
and  down  the  colonnade,  declairaiog  to  a  troop  of 
youths  who  had  followed  him  from  all  parts  of  Greece, 
attracted  by  the  music  of  his  words,  "as  though  he 
were  a  second  Orpheus."  Ilippias,  another  Sophist, 
whom  we  shall  meet  again,  is  lecturing  on  astronomy 
to  a  select  audience  in  the  opposite  portico;  while  the 
deep  voice  of  Prodicus,  a  younger  professor,  is  heard 
from  an  adjoining  room,  where  he  lies  still  warmly 
wrapped  up  in  bed,  and  conversing  from  it  to  another 
C'rcle  of  listeners. 


28  PLATO. 

Socrates  at  once  steps  up  to  Protagoras,  and  tells 
him  the  purpose  for  which  they  have  sought  him; 
and  the  great  man  makes  a  gracious  answer.  "  Yes- 
Hippocrates  has  done  right  to  come  to  him,  for  he  is 
not  as  other  Sophists.  He  will  not  treat  him  like  a 
schoolboy,  and  weary  him  with  astronomy  and  music. 
No;  he  will  teach  him  nobler  and  more  useful  lessons 
than  these;  prudence,  that  he  may  order  his  ovvn 
house  well;  and  political  wisdom,  that  he  may  prove 
himself  a  good  citizen  and  a  wise  statesman." 

"But,"  asks  Socrates,  half  incredulously,  " can  such 
wisdom  and  virtue  as  this  be  really  taught  at  all?  If 
it  were  so,  would  not  our  statesmen  have  taught  their 
own  children  the  art  by  which  they  became  great  them- 
selves, and  the  mantle  of  Pericles  have  descended  in 
a  measure  upon  his  sons?  " 

To  this  Protagoras  replies  by  a  parable.  Man  was 
overlooked  in  the  original  distribution  of  gifts  by 
Epimetheus  among  mortal  creatures,  and  was  left  the 
only  bare  and  defenceless  animal  in  creation;  and 
though  Prometheus  strove  to  remedy  his  brother's 
oversight  as  far  as  he  could,  by  giving  him  fire  and 
other  means  of  life,  still  there  was  no  principle  of 
government,  and  man  kept  slaying  and  plundering  his 
brother  man;  till  at  last  Jove  took  pity  on  him,  and 
sent  Hermes  to  distribute  justice  and  friendship,  not 
to  a  favored  few%  but  to  all  alike.  "  For,"  said  Jove, 
"  cities  cannot  exist,  if  a  few  only  share  in  the  virtues, 
as  in  the  arts ;  and  further,  make  a  law  by  my  order, 
that  he  who  has  no  part  in  reverence  and  justice  shall 
be  put  to  death  as  a  plague  to  the  state."  The  very 
fact  that  evil-doers  are  punished,  not  in  retaliation  for 
past  wrong,  but  to  prevent  future  wrong,  is  a  proof 
that  certain  virtues  can  be  acquired  "  from  study,  and 


PROTAGOBAS.  29 

exercise,  and  teaching."  In  fact,  a  man's  education 
begins  in  bis  cradle.  From  childbood  he  is  placed 
under  tutors  and  governors,  and  stimulated  to  virtue 
by  admonitions,  by  threats,  or  blows.  When  he  arrives 
at  man's  estate,  the  law  takes  the  place  of  his  masters, 
and  compels  him  to  live  uprightly.  He  who  rebels 
against  instruction  or  punishment  is  cither  exiled  or 
condemned  to  death,  under  the  idea  that  he  is  in- 
curable. "Who  teaches  viitue,  say  you?  (Protagoras 
continues);  you  might  as  well  ask  who  teaches  Greek. 
The  fact  is,  all  men  arc  its  teachers, — parents,  guard- 
ians, tutors,  the  laws,  society— each  and  all  do  their 
part  in  foiming  a  man's  character." 

Socrates  professes  himself  charmed  with  the  elo- 
quence of  Protagoras;  but  there  is  one  little  ques- 
tion further  upon  which  he  would  like  to  have  his 
opinion.  "Is  there  one  virtue,  or  are  there  many?" 
Protagoras,  who  at  first  argues  that  the  virtues  are 
separate — like  the  diJfferent  features  of  a  man's  face — 
is  forced  much  against  his  will  to  admit  that  holiness 
is  much  the  same  as  justice, — and  so  on  with  tlie 
several  others. 

Then  a  line  from  the  poet  Simonides  is  discussed — 
"It  is  hard  to  be  good;"  and  Protagoras,  who  had 
been  hitherto  the  chief  speaker,  is  himself  put  to  the 
question  by  Socrates,  with  a  reminder  that  short 
answers  are  best  for  short  memories— like  his  own. 
This  discussion  is  simply  a  satire  on  the  verbal  criti- 
cism so  common  in  that  age,  and  reduced  to  a  science 
by  the  Sophists;  when  men  in  the  very  exuberance  of 
tliought,  like  the  Euphuists  in  the  Elizabethan  age, 
fenced  with  sharp  sayings — taking,  as  here,  some  well- 
known  text  from  a  poet,  illustrating  its  meaning    and 


30  PLATO. 

using  it  to  point  a  moral,  like  a  preacher  in  a  modern 
pulpit. 

But  this  criticism  is  admitted  by  both  sides  to  be  a 
somewhat  commonplace  amusement.  To  quote  from 
the  poets,  says  Socrates,  witli  some  sarcasm,  especially 
■when  they  are  not  present  to  tell  us  what  they  really 
meant,  is  a  mere  waste  of  time;  it  is  like  listening  to 
a  flute-girl  after  dinner,  and  betrays  a  dearth  of  inven- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  company.  So  the  original 
argument  on  the  plurality  of  Virtue  is  resumed;  and 
it  is  proved,  to  the  satisfaction  at  least  of  one  dis- 
putant, that  knowledge  is  not  only  a  power  in  itself, 
but  is  also  the  main  element  in  every  virtue;  and  that 
even  if  pleasure  were  the  rule  of  life — which  it  is  not 
— still  knowledge  would  be  required  to  strike  the 
balance  between  pleasure  and  pain. 

GOKGIAS. 

Among  the  professors  of  the  day  none  was  more 
distinguished  than  Gorgias  of  Leontini,  who  came  as 
an  ambassador  to  Athens  to  obtain  her  aid  against 
Syracuse  before  the  great  Sicilian  war.  His  doctrines 
resulted  in  utter  Nihilism.  Nothing  (he  said)  exists; 
if  anything  existed,  it  could  not  be  known;  and,  even 
if  it  could  be  known,  such  knowledge  could  not  be 
imparted.  In  this  Dialogue  he  is  the  guest  of  Cal- 
licles,  an  accomplished  Athenian  gentleman ;  and  he  is 
pressed  by  Socrates  to  give  an  account  of  himself  and 
his  art.  Rhetoric,  replies  Gorgias,  is  his  art,  and  it  is 
used  by  him  and  by  others  for  the  best  of  purposes 
— namely,  to  give  political  freedom  to  all  men,  and 
political  power  to  a  few.  Of  course,  like  other  arts, 
it  is  capable  of  abuse;  but  it  is  not  the  teachers 
fault  of  his  pupils,   like  a  boxer  in  the  mere  wan- 


G  JUG  IAS.  31 

tonness  of  strength,  use  their  weapons  injuriously  or 
unfairly. 

Socrates  (who  seems  to  consider  Sophistry  quite  fair 
in  war  against  a  Sophisi)  uses  a  fallacy  as  gross  as 
any  of  those  which  he  himself  exposes  in  the  '*  Euthy- 
demus,"  and  makes  Gorgias  contradict  his  previous  as- 
sertion. The  Rhetorician  is  asserted  to  have  learned 
justice  from  his  teacher — granted;  he  is  therefore,  ipso 
facto,  a  just  man,  and  his  art  is  equally  just.  How, 
then,  can  he  act  injuriously? 

Polus — a  young  pupil  of  Gorgias— who  is  sitting 
near,  is  indignant  at  what  he  rightly  thinks  an  inten- 
tional misuse  of  words,  and  plunges  into  the  discussion 
with  all  the  impetuosity  of  youth.  Socrates,  he  says, 
has  no  right  to  force  such  a  plain  contradiction  in 
terms  upon  Gorgias— nay,  it  is  positive  ill-breeding  in 
him  to  do  so. 

"Most  excellent  Polus,"  says  Socrate=:,  in  his  po- 
litest manner,  "the  chief  object  of  our  providing  for 
ourselves,  friends  and  children,  is,  that  when  we  grow 
old  and  begin  to  fail,  a  younger  generation  may  be  at 
hand  to  set  us  on  our  legs  again  in  our  words  and  ac- 
tions; so  now,  if  I  and  Gorgias  are  failing,  we  have 
you  here,  ready  to  be  help  to  us,  as  you  ought  to  be; 
and  I,  for  my  part,  promise  to  retract  any  mistake 
which  you  may  think  I  have  made — on  one  condi- 
tion." 

And  this  condition  is  that  his  answers  must  be  brief. 
True,  it  is  hard  that  Polus  should  be  deprived  of  his 
freedom  of  speech,  especially  in  Athens;  but  it  is 
harder  still,  says  Socrates,  for  his  hearers,  to  have  to 
listen  to  long-winded  arguments. 

Then  Socrates  gives  his  views  on  Rhetoric,  which 
was  the  question  they  had  started  with.     It  is  not. 


82  Pi^ATO. 

strictly  speaking,  an  art  at  all,  but,  like  cookery  or 
music,  is  a  mere  routine  for  gratifying  the  senses,  being, 
in  fact,  a  part  of  flattery,  and  the  shadow  of  a  part  of 
politics,  and  bearing  the  same  relation  to  justice  that 
Sophistry  bears  to  legislation.* 

In  the  course  of  his  argument  with  Polus,  Socrates 
makes  two  statements  which  sound  to  his  audience 
like  the  wildest  paradoxes — truisms  as  they  may 
appear  from  a  Christian  point  of  view.  It  is  better  (he 
says)  to  suffer  than  to  do  a  wrong;  and  the  evil-doer, 
though  possessed  of  infinite  wealth  and  power,  must 
inevitably  be  miserable.  Though  all  the  world  should 
be  against  him,  he  will  maintain  this  to  be  the  truth 
— yes,  and  he  will  go  a  step  further.  The  evil-doer 
who  escapes  the  law,  and  lives  on  in  his  wickedness,  is 
a  more  miserable  man  than  he  who  suffers  the  reward 
of  his  crimes;  and  though  the  tyrant  or  murderer  may 
avoid  his  earthly  judge,  as  a  sick  child  avoids  the  doc- 
tor, still  he  carries  about  with  him  an  incurable  cancer  in 
his  soul.  For  his  own  part,  Socrates  would  heap  coals 
of  fire  upon  the  head  of  his  enemy  by  letting  him 
escape  punishment.  "If  he  has  stolen  a  sum  of 
money,  let  him  keep  it,  and  spend  it  on  him  and  his, 
regardless  of  religion  and  justice;  and  if  he  have  done 

*  The  following  table  exhibits  the  respective  places  which 
Socrates  considers  Rhetoric  and  Sophistry  to  hold  in  the  educa- 
tion of  his  day:— 

Training. 


Real.  Sham. 

Of  Rofl    5  ®y™nss**cs,  with  its  sham  counterpart,  Cosmetics. 
\  Medicine,         "  "  "  Cookery. 

Of  Mind  {  ^^'^'°^*^*^^' "  "  "  Sophistry. 

\  Judging,  "  "  "  Rhetoric. 


GORGIAS.  33 

things  worthy  of  death,  let  him  not  die,  but  rather  be 
immortal  in  his  wickedness." 

Callicles — the  shrewd  man  of  the  world — is  amazed 
to  hear  such  doctrines,  which,  if  put  into  practice, 
would,  he  thinks,  turn  society  upside  down.  "Is  your 
master  really  in  earnest,  or  is  he  joking?"  he  asks 
Chserephon, 

"He  speaks  in  profound  earnest,"  is  the  reply. 

"Yes,"  says  Socrates;  "and  my  words  are  but  the 
echo  of  the  voice  of  truth  speaking  within  my  breast." 

But  Callicles  is  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  such 
"brave  words."  Gorgias  was  too  modest,  and  Polus 
too  clumsy  an  opponent  to  point  out  an  obvious  fallacy. 
Socrates  has  been  playing  fast  and  loose  with  the  words 
Custom  and  Nature,  and  has  confounded  two  dis- 
tinct things.  To  suifer  wrong  is  better  than  to  do 
wrong  by  Custom,  but  not  by  Nature.  Conventional 
Justice  is  the  refuge  of  the  coward  and  the  slave,  and 
was  invented  by  tha  weak  in  self-defence.  Naturally, 
Might  is  Right — 

"  The  good  old  rule,  the  simple  plan. 
That  they  should  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can." 

Socrates  is  surely  not  too  old  to  learn  a  little  common- 
sense.  Philosophy,  as  a  part  of  education,  is  a  good 
thing,  no  doubt,  to  start  with.  But  if  a  man  carries  it 
with  him  into  later  life,  he  becomes  a  useless  and  ridicu- 
lous member  of  society,  at  the  mercy  of  any  chance 
accuser;  hiding  in  holes  and  corners,  and  whispering 
to  a  few  chosen  youths,  instead  of  standing  forth 
boldly  before  the  world,  and  making  his  mark  in  life. 

Socrates    compliments  Callicles  on    a  frankness  so 
rarely  met  with,  but  presses  him  as  to  the  exact  sense 
of  "natural  justice" — i.e.,  the  will   of  the  stronger. 
2 


34  PLATO. 

By  ''stronger'*  Callicles  explains  that  he  means  the 
wise  and  stout-hearted  politician,  who  has  the  ambition 
and  spirit  and  desires  of  a  king;  and  who,  moreover, 
will  not  scruple  to  gratify  them  to  the  full.  "Yes," 
says  C;lli::lcs,  emphatically,  "luxury,  intemperance, 
and  license,  if  they  are  duly  supported,  are  happiness 
and  virtue — all  the  rest  is  a  meie  bauble,  custom  con- 
trary to  nature,  acd  nothing  worth." 

Socrates,  in  his  own  fashion, disproves  these  monstrous 
doctrines,  and  forces  Callicles,  though  much  against 
his  will,  to  admit  that  pleasure  and  virtue  are  not 
always  identical;  that  really  Virtue  is,  or  should  be, 
the  end  of  all  our  actions;  that  in  the  long-run  the 
just  and  temperate  man  alone  is  happy;  and  that  he 
who  leads  a  robber's  life  is  abhorred  by  gods  and  men 
while  upon  earth,  and  goes  down  to  Hades  with  his 
soul  branded  with  the  scars  of  his  crimes.  There  must 
come  a  day  of  judgment  and  retribution,  when  each 
man  shall  receive  the  just  reward  of  his  deeds. 

Now  I  (concludes  Socrates)  am  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  these 
things,  and  I  consider  how  I  shall  present  my  soul  whole  and 
undefiled  before  the  Judge  on  that  day.  Renouncing  the  honors 
at  which  the  world  aims,  I  desire  only  to  know  the  truth,  and  to 
live  as  well  as  I  can,  and,  when  the  time  comes,  to  die.  And  to 
the  utmost  of  my  power,  I  exhort  all  men  to  do  the  same.  And 
in  return  for  your  exhortation  of  me,  I  exhort  you  also  to  take 
part  in  the  great  combat,  which  is  the  combat  of  life,  and 
greater  than  every  other  earthly  conflict.— J. 

But  in  spite  of  his  triumphant  defence  of  Virtue, 
there  is  a  bitt  r  tone  of  isolation  and  loneliness  in  the 
last  part  of  this  Dialogue.  "I,  and  I  only,  am  left," 
Socrates  seems  to  say  —  like  Elijah  upon  Carmel  — 
among  ten  thousand  who  know  not  the  truth.  My 
own  generation  will  not  hear  me  or  believe  me;  they 
will  not  even  understand  me;  and  iu  the  end  I  shall 


EIPPIAS.  35 

probably  be  accused — as  a  physician  might  be  arraigned 
by  a  pastry-cook  before  a  jury  of  children;  and  as  I 
cannot  refer  to  any  pleasures  which  I  have  provided 
for  the  people,  but  can  only  appeal  to  my  own  blame- 
less life,  any  one  may  foresee  the  verdict.  "  Not  that 
1  fear  death  " — he  says,  with  a  noble  scorn — only  the 
coward  and  the  profligate  need  fear  that.  There  is 
something  nobler  than  mere  ease  and  personal  safety. 
"He  who  is  truly  a  man,  ought  not  to  care  much 
how  long  he  lives;  he  knows,  as  women  say,  that 
none  can  escape  the  day  of  destiny,  and  therefore  is 
not  too  fond  of  life;  all  that  he  leaves  to  heaven,  and 
thinks  how  he  may  best  spend  such  term  as  is  allotted 
him." 

THE  *'  GREATER  "  AND  "  LESSER  "  HIPPIAS. 

Two  short  Dialogues  ascribed  to  Plato  on  doubtful 
grounds  have  come  down  to  us  bearing  the  name  of 
Hippias,  who  is  the  representative  of  the  younger 
generation  of  Sophists,  clever  and  accomplished,  but, 
as  we  shall  see,  intolerably  vain  of  his  personal  merits. 

"How  is  it,"  asks  Sociates  on  meeting  him,  "that 
the  wise  and  handsome  Hippias  has  been  so  long  away 
from  Athens  ?  " 

"  Public  business  has  taken  up  all  my  time,"  Hippias 
replies;  "for  I  am  always  singled  out  by  my  country- 
men of  E!is  on  any  important  occnsion,  as  being  the 
only  man  who  can  properly  represent  their  city,  and  I 
have  just  been  on  an  embassy  to  Sparta." 

"  Lucky  fellow !  "  says  Socrates,  "to  combine  such 
dignity  and  usefulness,  and  to  get  large  sums  from  the 
youth  in  return  for  that  knowledge  which  is  more 
precious  than  any  gold.  But  how  was  it  that  the 
wise  men  of  old  took  no  practical  part  in  politics?" 


3G  *  PLATO. 

"  Because  they  had  not  the  ability  to  combine  public 
and  private  business,  as  we  do  now." 

"Ah,  well,"  says  Socrates,  "I  suppose  wisdom  has 
progressed,  like  everything  else.  Gorgias  and  Prodicus 
have,  I  know,  made  immense  sums  from  their  pupils; 
but  those  old  sages  were  too  simple-minded  to  ask  for 
payment,  or  make  an  exhibition  of  their  knowledge. 
Nowadays,  he  is  wisest  who  makes  most  money." 

**  You  would  be  astonished,"  says  Hippias,  "  if  you 
know  what  a  fortune  I  have  made.  I  got  a  hundred 
and  fifty  minse  In  Sicily  alone,  though  Protagoras  was 
there  at  the  same  time." 

"And  where  did  you  make  most?"  asks  Soc- 
rates. "I  suppose  at  Spar; a,  for  you  have  been  there 
oftenest. " 

"No,"  says  Hippias;  "not  a  penny  could  I  get  from 
the  Spartans,  though  they  have  plenty  of  money. 
Indeed  they  care  little  for  Astronomy  or  Music,  or  any 
new  sciences ;  and  as  for  Mathematics,  they  can  hardly 
count.  The  only  thing  they  cared  about  was  Archieol- 
ogy — the  genealogies  of  their  gods  and  heroes,  aid  so 
forth ;  and  they  were  also  greatly  pleased  with  a  lecture 
I  gave  in  the  form  of  advice  from  Nestor  to  Neoptole- 
mus  on  the  choice  of  a  profession." 

"By  the  way,"  says  Socrates,  suddenly,  "there  is 
one  question  which  I  want  answered,  and  I  have  been 
waiting  till  I  could  find  one  of  you  wise  men  to  tell 
me — What  is  the  Beautiful? " 

Hippias  at  first  answers  that  a  fair  maiden  is  a  beau- 
tiful thing;  but  Socrates  shows  that  this  is  merely 
a  relative  term,  and  that  compared  with  a  goddess 
she  would  be  ugly,  just  as  the  wisest  man  is  an  ape 
compared  with  a  god.  There  must  be  some  Form  or 
Essence  which  makes  a  maiden  or  a  lyre  beautiful. 


UIPIIAS.  37 

It  is  not  "gold"  (as  Hippias  foolMily  suggests),  for 
then  Phidias  would  have  made  Athene's  face  of  gold 
instead  of  ivory:  nor  is  it  "the  suitable,"  for  that  only 
causes  things  in  their  right  place  to  appear  beautiful, 
and  does  not  really  make  them  so.  Nor,  again,  does 
the  glowing  description  of  a  prosperous  life  according 
to  Greek  ideas,  which  is  the  next  definition  volun- 
teered, satisfy  Socrates. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  thing,  when  a  man  has  lived  in 
health,  wealth,  and  honor,  to  reach  old  age,  and  hav- 
ing buried  his  parents  handsomely,  to  be  buried 
splendidly  by  his  descendants. "  * 

Such  vague  language  tells  us  nothing.  Again, 
Beauty  is  not  "the  useful,"  nor  is  it  even  "power  for 
the  production  of  good,"  for  this  would  make  good- 
ness distinct  from  beauty.  And  lastly,  Beauty  is  not 
simply  "that  which  pleases  our  sight  and  hearing." 
And  then  by  an  argument— more  subtle  than  the  occa- 
sion seems  to  require — Socrates  shows  that  the  pleas- 
ures from  the  other  senses  should  not  be  excluded. 

Finally,  the  question  is  left  unanswered,  and  Hip- 
pias expresses  hi'^  dissatisfaction  at  these  "shreds  and 
parings  of  argument."  A  man  (he  thinks;)  should  take 
a  larger  view  of  debate,  and  learn  to  make  a  telling 
speech  in  court,  instead  of  wasting  time  on  this  minute 
criticism,  which  profits  him  nothing. 

No  doubt,  Socrates  replies,  his  own  doubts  and  dif- 
ficulties, which  some  strange  power  compels  him  to 
make  known,  seem  small  and  valueless  to  a  wise  man 
like  Hippias.  It  has  always  been  hi.5  unhappy  destiny 
to  seek  and  inquire,  and  be  reviled  by  the  world  for 
doing  so;  but  this  discipline  must  be  endured,  if  the 

*  Whewell's  Platonic  Dialogues,  ii.  101. 


33  PLATO.      . 

result  is  his  own  improvement.  la  nny  case,  this  dis- 
cussion has  had  one  advantage,  for  it  has  taught  him 
the  truth  of  the  old  proverb,  that  "What  is  beauti- 
ful is  d'fficult." 

In  the  Dialogue  known  as  the  "  Lesser  "  Hippias, 
we  again  meet  that  philosopher,  who  has  just  delivered 
a  lecture  on  Homer  at  Athens,  and  who  boasts  that  he 
can  talk  on  all  subjects  and  answer  all  questions  that 
may  be  asked ;  in  fact,  he  is  a  professor  of  every  science. 
Upon  this,  Socrates  reminds  him  that  on  his  last  ap- 
pearance at  Olympia  he  had  worn  a  tunic  and  em- 
broidered girdle  which  he  had  woven  himself,  and  a 
ring  which  he  had  engraved  with  his  own  hand ;  and 
had  brought  with  him  a  quantity  of  his  own  writings 
in  verse  and  proso,  and,  more  wonderful  than  all,  an 
Art  of  Memory,  which  he  had  himself  invented. 

The  question  on  which  Socrates  wishes  now  to  be 
enlightened  by  Hippias  is  the  characters  of  the  two 
heroes  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  Hippias  maintains 
that  Achilles  is  nobler  than  Ulysses,  as  being  straight- 
forward, and  not  mendacious.  But  Socrates  objects  to 
this;  the  mendacious  man  is  capable,  intelligent, 
and  wise:  if  a  man  cannot  tell  a  lie  on  occasion, 
he  shows  his  ignorance.  Those  who  do  wrong  willfully 
are  better  than  those  who  do  wrong  through  ignorance 
or  against  their  will— just  as  to  be  willfully  ungraceful 
is  better  than  to  be  really  awkward;  and  as  a  good 
runner  can  run  fast  or  slow,  and  a  good  archer  hit  or 
miss  the  mark  when  he  chooses. 

Again,  Socrates  continues,  if  justice  is  a  mental 
capacity,  the  more  capable  mind  is  the  more  just;  and 
such  a  mind,  being  competent  to  exercise  itself  in 
good  or  evil,   will,   if  it  does  evil,   do  it  willingly; 


EITTIIYDEMU8.  39 

and    therefore    the    willful    wrong-doer    is    the   good 
man. 

And  with  this  gross  paradox — established  by  ariju- 
ments  as  sophistical  as  any  which  Socrates  has  else- 
where exposed— the  Dialogue  ends.  He  confesses 
himself  to  be  puzzled  and  bewildered  by  the  conclu- 
sion at  which  they  have  arrived;  but  (he  adds)  it  is 
no  great  wonder  that  a  plain  simple  man  like  himself 
should  be  puzzled,  if  the  great  and  wise  Hippias  is 
puzzled  as  well. 

EUTHYDEMUS. 

Nowhere  is  Plato's  humor  more  sustained  than  in 
this  Dialogue,  portions  of  which  seem  to  Lavj  been 
written  in  a  spirit  of  broad  farc3.  The  arrogance  ar.d 
self-conceit  of  the  two  principal  i:)ersonages,  the  mock 
humility  of  Socrates  and  the  impatience  of  Ctesippus, 
form  a  contrast  of  character  as  amusing  as  a  scene  in 
a  clever  comedy. 

Euthydemus  and  Dionysodorus  are  introduced  as 
two  brothers,  possessed,  by  their  own  account,  of  uni- 
versal genius — able  to  use  their  swords  and  fight  in 
armor — masters,  also,  of  legal  fence,  and  professors  of 
"wrangLng"  generally — able  and  willing,  moreover, 
to  give  lessons  in  speaking,  pleading,  and  writing 
speeches.  But  all  these  accomplishments  are  now,  as 
they  frankly  tell  Socrates,  matters  of  merely  secondary 
consideration. 

"  Indeed,"  I  said,  "if  such  occupations  are  regarded  by  you  as 
secondary,  what  must  the  principal  one  be?  Tell  me,  I  beseech 
you,  what  that  noble  study  is." 

"  The  teaching  of  virtue,  Socrates,"  he  replied,  "  is  our  princi- 
pal occupation;  and  we  believe  that  we  can  impart  it  better  and 
quicker  than  any  man." 

"  My  God :  "  I  said,  "  and  where  did  you  learn  that?  I  alwaya 
thought,  as  I  Avas  saying  just  now.  that  your  chief  accomplish- 


40  PLATO. 

ment  was  the  art  of  fighting  in  armor;  and  this  was  what  I 
used  to  say  of  you,  for  I  remember  that  this  was  professed  by 
you  when  you  were  here  before.  But  now,  if  you  really  have 
the  other  knowledge,  O  forgive  me:  I  address  you  as  I  would 
superior  beings,  and  ask  you  to  pardon  the  impiety  of  my  former 
expressions.  But  are  you  quite  sure  about  this,  Dionysodorus 
and  Euthydemus?  the  promise  is  so  vast,  that  a  feeling  of  incre 
dulity  will  creep  in. 
*'  You  may  take  our  word,  Socrates,  for  the  fact." 
*'  Then  I  think  you  happier  in  having  such  a  treasure  than  the 
great  king  is  in  the  possession  of  his  kingdom.  And  please  to 
tell  me  whether  you  intend  to  exhibit  this  wisdom,  or  what  you 
will  do." 

"That  is  why  we  are  come  hither,  Socrates;  and  our  purpose 
is  not  only  to  exhibit,  but  also  to  teach  any  one  who  likes  to 
learn."— J. 

A  circle  is  formed,  and  j^oung  Cleinias,  a  grandson 
of  Alcibiades,  is  selected  as  the  victim  to  be  improved 
by  their  logic,  and  is  questioned  accordingly  as  to  his 
ideas  of  knowledge  and  ignorance.  The  i:)oor  youth  is 
puzzled  and  confounded  by  their  ingenious  question- 
ing, and  contradicts  himself  almost  immediately;  but 
Socrates  good-naturedly  reassures  him  by  telling  him 
that  his  tormentors  are  not  really  in  earnest,  and  that 
their  jests  are  merely  a  sort  of  prelude  to  graver  mys- 
teries to  which  he  will  be  presently  admitted,  as  soon 
as  he  has  learnt  the  correct  use  of  terms.  Then 
Socrates,  with  the  gracious  permission  of  the  two 
Sophists,  gives  an  example  of  his  own  method,  and 
by  a  series  of  easy  questions  elicits  from  Cleinias  the 
admission  that  wisdom  is  the  only  good,  that  ignorance 
is  evil,  and  that  to  become  wise  is  at  present  his  heart's 
desire. 

Then  Euthydemus  begins  again.  '*So  you  want 
Cleinias  to  become  wise,  and  he  is  not  wise  yet?" 
Tosrates  admits  t'.iis.     "  Then  you  want  the  boy  to  be 


EUTIIYDEMU8.  <tl 

no  longer  ^vhat  he  is — that  is,  you  want  him  to  be  done 
away  with?    A  nice  set  of  friends  you  must  all  be!  " 

Socrates  is  amazed  at  this  retort;  and  Ctesippus, 
who  is  a  warm  friend  of  Cleinias,  is  most  indignant,  and 
calls  the  Sophists  a  pair  of  liars  in  plain  language.  To 
this  Euthydemus  replies  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  lis,  and  that  contradiction  is  impossible.  The 
dispute  is  growing  warm,  when  Socrates  interposes. 
There  is  no  use,  he  says,  in  quarreling  about  words; 
if  by  "  doing  away  with  him ''  the  strangers  mean  that 
they  will  make  a  new  man  out  of  Cleinias,  by  all  means 
let  them  destroy  the  youth,  and  msike  him  wise,  and 
all  of  us  with  him. 

But  if  j-ou  joung  men  da  not  like  to  trust  yourselves  with 
them,  then,  fiat  experiment  am  in  corpore  senis,  here  I  offer  my 
old  person  to  Dionysodorus:  lie  may  put  me  into  the  pot,  like 
Bledea  the  Colchian,  kill  me,  pickle  me,  eat  me,  if  he  will  only 
make  me  good.  Ctesippus  said :  "And  I,  Socrates,  am  ready  to 
commit  myself  to  the  strangers;  they  may  skin  me  alive,  if  they 
please  (and  I  am  pretty  well  skinned  by  them  aheady),  if  only 
my  skin  is  made  at  last,  not  like  that  of  Marsyas,  into  a  leathern 
bottle,  but  into  a  piece  of  virtue.  And  here  is  Dionysodorus 
fancying  that  I  am  angry  with  him,  when  I  am  really  not  angry 
at  all.  I  do  but  contradict  him  when  he  seems  to  me  to  be  in 
the  wrong;  and  you  must  not  confound  abuse  and  contradiction, 
O  illustrious  Dionysodorus;  for  they  are  quite  different  things." 

"  Contradiction  1 "  said  Dionysodorus;  "why,  there  never  was 
sucha  thing."— J. 

And  then  he  proves  in  his  own  fashion  that  false- 
hood has  no  existence ;  and  that  a  man  must  either  say 
what  is  true  or  say  nothing  at  all. 

One  absurd  paradox  follows  another;  and  the  two 
brothers  venture  on  the  most  extravagant  assertions. 
According  to  them,  neither  error  nor  ignorance  are 
possible;  and  they  themselves  have  known  all  things 
from  their  birth —dancing,   carpentering,   cobbling — 


42  PLATO. 

nay,  the  very  number  of  the  stars  and  tands;  till  even 
Socrates  loses  patience,  and  Ctesippus  canaot  disguise 
bis  disgust  at  their  effrontery. 

Several  passages  of  arms  take  place,  of  w'nich  the 
following  may  serve  as  an  instance : 

"  You  say,"  asks  Euthydemus  of  Ctesippus,  "  that  you  have  a 
dog?" 

"  Yes,  a  villain  of  a  one,"  said  Ctesippus. 

"  And  he  has  puppies?  " 

"Yes,  and  they  are  veiy  like  himself." 

"And  the  dog  is  the  father  of  them?  " 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  said ,  ' '  certainly. ' ' 

"  And  is  ho  not  yours?  " 

"  To  be  sure  he  is." 

"  Then  he  is  a  father,  and  he  is  yours;  ergo,  he  is  your  father, 
ani  the  puppies  are  your  brothers." 

'*  Let  me  ask  you  one  little  question  more,"  said Dionysodorus, 
quickly  interposing,  in  order  that  Ctesippus  mi^ht  not  get  in  his 
word—"  you  beat  this  dog?  " 

Ctesippus  said,  laughing,  "Indeed  I  do;  and  I  only  wish  that  I 
could  beat  you  instead  of  him." 

"  Then  you  beat  your  father,"  he  said. 

I  should  have  had  more  reason  to  beat  yours,  said  Ctesippus ; 
"  what  could  he  have  been  thinking  of  when  he  begat  such  wise 
sons?  Much  good  has  this  father  of  you  and  other  curs  got  out 
of  your  wisdom.  "—J. 

More  arguments  are  advanced,  in  which  tlie  perver- 
sion of  words  is  no  less  gross  and  palpable  than  in  the 
passage  above  quoted — even  to  the  most  illogical  mind. 
The  fallacies,  indeed,  are  generally  so  transparent  as 
liaidlyto  require  serious  refutation.  The  bystanders 
however,  are  represented  as  being  marvelously  pleased 
at  the  remarkable  wit  and  ingenuity  of  the  two 
brethren;  and  Socrates  professes  to  be  overcome  by 
this  display  of  their  powers  of  reasoning.  He  makes 
them  a  speech  in  which  he  gravely  compliments  them 
on  their  magnanimous  disregard  of  all  opinions  besides 


EUTHTDEMU8.  43 

their  own,  and  their  "kind  and  public-spirited  denial 
of  all  differences,  whether  of  white  or  black,  good  or 
evil." 

"  But  what  appears  to  me  to  be  more  than  all  is,  that  this  art 
and  invention  of  j'ours  is  so  admirably  contrived  that  in  a  very- 
short  time  it  can  be  imparted  to  any  one.  I  observe  that  Ctesip- 
pus  learned  to  imitate  you  in  no  time.  Now  this  quickness  of 
attainment  is  an  excellent  thing;  but  at  the  same  time  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  have  any  more  public  entertainments— there 
is  a  danger  that  men  may  undervalue  an  art  which  they  have  so 
easy  an  opportunity  of  learning;  the  exhibition  would  be  best  of 
all,  if  the  discussion  were  confined  to  your  two  selves ;  but  if 
there  must  be  an  audience,  let  him  only  be  present  who  is  willing 
to  pay  a  handsome  fee:— you  should  be  careful  of  this— and  if 
you  are  wise,  you  will  also  bid  your  disciples  discourse  with  no 
man  but  you  and  themselves.  For  only  what  is  rare  is  valuable ; 
and  water,  which,  as  Pindar  says,  is  the  best  of  all  things,  is  also 
the  cheapest.  And  now  I  have  only  to  request  that  you  will  re- 
ceive Cleinias  and  me  among  your  pupils."— J, 


CHAPTER  III. 

SOCRATES  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

SYMPOSIUM— PBLEDRUS— APOLOGY— CRITO    PH^DO. 

"There  neither  is,  nor  shall  there  ever  be,  any  treatise  of 
Plato.  The  opinions  called  by  the  name  of  Plato  are  those  of 
Socrates  in  the  days  of  his  {youthful  vigor  and  glory,"— Plato, 
Ep.  ii.  314  (Grote). 

Socrates,  in  whom,  as  we  have  seen,  Plato  thus 
merges  his  own  personality,  and  who  is  the  spokesman 
in  nearly  every  Dialogue,  was  the  son  of  a  sculptor  at 
Athens,  and  was  born  in  the  year  B.C.  468.  He  left 
his  father's  workshop  at  an  early  age,  and  devoted 
himself  to  the  task  of  public  teaching,— being,  as  he 
believed,  specially  commissioned  by  the  gods  to  ques- 
tion and  cross-examine  all  he  met.  Accordingly  he 
might  be  found,  day  after  day,  in  the  workships,  in 
the  public  walks,  in  the  market-place,  or  in  the  Palaes- 
tra, hearing  and  asking  questions;  careless  wh' re  or 
when  or  with  whom  he  talked.  His  personal  ugliness 
— about  which  he  makes  a  juke  himself  in  the  *"  Thcac- 
tetus" — his  thick  lips,  snub  nose,  and  corpulent  body, 
and  besides  this,  his  mean  dress  and  bare  feet,  made 
him,  perhaps,  the  most  remarkable  figure  in  Athens, 
especially  when  contrasted  with  the  rich  dresses  and 
classic  features  of  the  youths  w^ho  often  followed  him. 


THE  SYMPOSIUM.  45 

Yet  under  that  Silenus  mask  (as  Alcibiades  described 
it)  was  concealed  the  image  of  a  god.  None  who  had 
over  heard  him  speak  could  easily  forget  the  steady 
gaze,  the  earnest  manner,  and,  above  all,  the  impas- 
sioned words  which  made  their  hearts  burn  within 
them  as  they  listened.  Many  youths  would  approach 
the  circle  which  always  formed  whenever  Socrates 
talked  or  argued,  from  mere  curiosity  or  as  a  resource 
to  pass  away  an  hour;  and  at  first  they  would  look 
with  indifference  or  contempt  on  the  mean  and  poorly- 
dressed  figure  in  the  centre;  but  gradually  their  interest 
was  arou>^ed,  their  attention  grew  fixed,  and  then  their 
hearts  beat  faster,  their  eyes  swam  with  tears,  and 
their  very  souls  were  touched  and  thrilled  by  the  voice 
of  the  charmer.  They  came  again  and  again  to  listen; 
and  so  by  degrees  that  company  of  friends  were  formed, 
whose  devotion  and  affection  to  their  master  is  the 
best  testimony  to  the  magic  power  of  his  words. 

Among  these  followers  might  be  found  men  of  every 
shade  of  character — the  reckless  and  ambitious  Critias, 
the  skeptic  Pyrrho,  the  pleasure-seeking  Aristippus, 
*'the  madman"  Apollodorus,  and  Euclid,  who  came 
constantly  twenty  miles  from  Megara,  although  a  decree 
at  that  time  existed  that  any  Megarian  found  in  Athens 
should  be  put  to  death.  Above  all,  Alcibiades  was  a 
constant  companion  of  Socrates;  and  men  wondered 
at  the  friendship  between  this  strango^-assorted  pair — 
literally  "  Hyperion  to  a  Satyr," — th'^  ugly  barefooted 
philosopher,  and  the  graceful  youth,  the  idol  of  the  rising 
generation,  whose  brilliant  sayings  wcr*.  quoted,  whose 
wild  escapades  were  laughed  at,  whose  figure  artists 
loved  to  model  for  their  statutes  of  Hermes,  and  whose 
very  lisp  became  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Surrounded 
by  flatterers  and  admirers.  Alcibiades  found  one  man 


46  PLATO. 

who  paid  him  no  compliments,  who  cared  nothing  for 
his  rank  and  accomplishments,  yet  whose  words  had 
the  effect  of  exciting  all  that  was  noble  in  his  nature. 
A  strong  attachment  grew  up  between  the  two,  and 
they  shared  the  same  tent,  and  messed  together  in  the 
winter  siei^e  of  Potidasa.  Akibiades  himself  tells  us, 
in  the  Dialogue  which  follows,  how  easily  Socrates 
bore  the  intense  cold  of  those  northern  regions,  and 
how,  "  with  his  bare  feet  on  the  ice,  and  in  his  ordi- 
nary dress,  he  marched  better  than  any  of  the  o'.her 
soldiers  who  had  their  shoes  on."  His  personal  cour- 
age was  also  remarkable.  On  one  occasion  he  saved 
Alcibiades'  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own ;  and  in  the  disas- 
trous retreat  after  the  battle  of  Delium,  we  are  told 
that,  while  all  around  him  were  hurrying  in  wild 
flight,  he  walked  as  unmoved  *'as  if  he  were  in  the 
streets  of  Athens,  stalking  like  a  pelican,  and  rolling 
his  eyes,  while  he  calmly  contemplated  friends  and 
foes." 

Though  Socrates  thus  discharged  his  duties  as  a  sol- 
dier, he  only  twice  in  the  course  of  his  long  life,  took 
any  prominent  part  in  politics.  The  first  occasion  was 
when  he  opposed  the  unjust  sentence  of  death  passed 
by  the  assembly  against  the  generals  after  the  battle  of 
Arginusae;  and  again  when,  at  the  peril  of  his  own  life, 
he  refused  to  obey  the  order  of  the  Thirty  Tyrants,  and 
arrest  an  innocent  man.  The  "divine  voice,"  of 
which  he  speaks  so  frequently,  and  which  interfered 
and  checked  him  at  any  important  crisis  of  his  life, 
had  forbidden  him  to  take  part  in  the  affairs  of  the 
state.  He  was,  however,  devoted  to  Athens;  and 
except  on  military  service,  we  are  told  that  he  never 
left  the  city  w^alls.  Two  Thessalian  princes  once  tried 
to  tempt  him,  by  lavish  offers  of  money,  to  settle  at 


THE  SYMPOSIUM.  4^ 

their  courts;  but  he  replied  with  uoble  independence 
that  it  did  not  become  him  to  accept  benefits  which  he 
could  never  hope  to  return,  and  that  his  bodily  wants 
were  few,  for  he  could  buy  four  measures  of  meal  for 
an  obolus  at  Athens,  and  there  was  excellent  spring' 
water  to  be  got  there— for  nothing. 

One  secret  of  the  influence  exercised  by  Socrates  lay 
in  his  genial  humor,  and  in  his  entire  freedom  from 
conventionality.  He  was  not  (he  says  himself)  as 
other  men  are.  He  conversed  in  the  open  air  with  all 
chance-comers,  rich  and  poor  alike,  instead  of  immur- 
ing himself  in  a  lecture-room.  He  would  take  no  pay, 
while  the  Sophists  round  him  were  realizing  fortunes. 
Instead  of  wasting  time  in  the  barren  field  of  science, 
or  wearying  his  hearers  with  the  subtleties  of  rhetoric, 
he  discussed  the  great  practical  questions  of  life  and 
morality,  and,  as  Cicero  said,  '*  brought  down  philos- 
ophy from  heaven  to  earth."  What  is  Truth?  What  is 
Virtue?  What  is  Justice? — or,  as  he  put  it  himself, 
*'  All  the  good  and  evil  that  has  befallen  a  man  in  his 
home," — such  were  the  subjects  of  his  daily  conver.-a- 
tiou.     He  was  the  first  who  openly  asserted  that 

"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man;" — 

that  is,  man's  nature  and  happiness,  his  virtues  and 
his  vices,  his  place  in  creation,  and  the  end  and  object 
of  his  life. 

In  the  defence  which  Plato  puts  into  his  mouth  at 
his  trial,  Socrates  gives  an  account  of  what  he  con- 
ceived to  be  his  own  mission.  His  friend  Chserephon 
had  asked  the  priestess  of  Delphi  '  *  if  there  was  any 
man  on  earth  wiser  than  Socrates?"  and  the  oracle  had 
replied  that  there  was  none.  Socrates  then  resolved 
himself  to  test  the  truth  of  this  reply,  and  accordingly 


[$8  PLATO. 

he  had  cross-examined  statesmen,  poets,  philosophers, 
"^all,  in  short,  who  had  the  reputation  of  wisdom  in 
their  profession, — and  he  had  found  that  their  pre- 
tended knowledge  was  only  ignorance,  that  God  alone 
was  wise,  that  human  wisdom  was  w^orthloss,  and  that 
among  men  he  was  wisest  who,  like  himself, 

"  Professed 
"  To  know  this  only,  that  he  nothing  knew."  * 

Tbis  was  the  great  point  of  contrast  between  Socra- 
tes and  those  professors  of  universal  knowledge,  the 
Sophists.  In  their  presence  he  always  assumed  the 
humble  position  of  a  man  "  intellectually  bankrupt," 
who  knows  nothing,  and  who  is  seeking  for  informa- 
tion. He  addresses  some  master  of  rhetoric  or  science 
with  a  modest  and  deferential  air;  he  will  take  it  as 
an  infinite  obligation  if  the  great  man  will  condescend 
to  relieve  his  doubts  by  answering  a  few  easy  questions 
on  some  (apparently)  obvious  question  of  morality; 
and,  of  course,  the  Sophist,  to  save  his  own  reputa- 
tion, has  no  alternative  but  to  comply.  Then  Socra- 
tes, like  a  skillful  barrister,  leads  his  unsuspecting 
victim  on  through  a  series  of  what  seem  innocent  ques- 
tions, yet  all  bearing  indirectly  on  the  main  point  of 
the  argument,  till  at  last  his  opponent  is  landed  in 
some  gross  absurdity  or  contradiction.  This  "irony" 
has  been  well  termed  "  a  logical  masked  battery,"  and 
is  more  or  less  a  feature  in  every  Dialogue  of  Plato. 

The  humor,  the  genial  temper,  and  the  quiet  self- 
possession  of  Socrates,  must  have  made  him  a  welcome 
guest  in  many  houses;  and  in  the  Dialogue  called 
"  The  Banquet "  (Symposium),  we  have  a  sketch  of  the 
philosopher  "at  home,"  joking  with  his  friends,  and  en- 

*  Milton,  Par.  Reg.,  iv.  294. 


THE  SYMPOSIUM. 


*? 


tering  into  the  humor  of  the  hour;  and  showing  that, 
though  he  could  abstain,  he  could  also,  if  the  occasion 
required  it,  drink  as  hard  and  as  long  as  any  reveler 
in  Athens.  A  goodly  company  are  assembled  at  Aga- 
thon's  house.  There  is  the  host,  a  handsome  young 
dilettante  poet:  there  is  Phaedrus,  another  young  as- 
pirant in  literature:  there  is  Pausanias  the  historian, 
and  Aristophanes  the  comic  poet,  apparently  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  the  philosopher  whom  he  had  ridi- 
culed so  unsparingly  in  the  "Clouds;"  there  is  a 
doctor,  Eryximachus,  genial  and  sociable,  but  "pro- 
fessional" throughout:  there  is  Socrates  himself,  who 
has  put  on  sandals  for  the  occasion,  and  who  comes 
late,  having  fallen  into  a  trance  on  the  way;  and 
lastly,  there  is  his  satellite  Arislodemus, — "the  little 
unshod  disciple,"— who  gives  the  history  of  this  sup- 
per-party some  time  after  to  his  friend  ApoUodorus. 

When  the  meal  is  ended,  and  the  due  libations  have 
been  poured,  and  a  hymn  sung  to  the  gods,  Pausanias 
proposes  that  icstead  of  drinking  and  listening  to  the 
flute-girl's  music — ("  she  may  play  to  herself,"  says 
the  doctor,  considerately,  "or  to  the  women  inside,  if 
she  prefers  it ")— they  shall  pass  a  sober  evening,  and 
that  each  of  the  guests  in  turn  shall  make  a  speech  in 
praise  of  Love— hitherto  a  much-neglected  deity.  This 
prudent  proposal  is  readily  accepted  by  the  company, 
many  of  whom  have  hardly  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  the  last  nighfs  carouse. 

Phaedrus  accordingly  begins,  in  a  high-flown  poetic 
style,  acrd  praises  Love  as  being  the  best  and  oldest  of 
the  gods,  and  the  source  of  happiness  in  life  and  death. 
It  is  Love  (he  says)  that  inspires  such  heroibm  as  that 
of  Alcestis,  who  died  to  save  her  husband's  life, — 
unlike  that  "cowardly  harper"  Orpheus,  who  went 


50  PLATO. 

alive  to  Hades  after  his  wife,  and  was  justly  punished 
afterwards  for  his  impertinence.  Love,  again — 
passing  that  of  women  —  inspired  Achilles,  who 
"foremost  fighting  fell"  to  avenge  his  friend  Patro- 
clus,  and  was  carried  after  death  to  the  islands  of  the 
blest. 

Pausanias  follows  in  the  same  vein,  but  distin- 
guishes between  the  ignoble  and  fleeting  love  of  the 
body  and  the  pure  and  lasting  love  of  the  soul. 

Aristophanes  should  properly  have  spoken  next, 
"  but  either  he  had  eaten  too  much,  or  from  some  other 
cause  he  had  the  hiccough."  The  doctor  recommends 
him  to  drink  some  water,  or,  if  that  fails,  to  "tickle 
his  nose  and  sneeze; "  meanwhile  he  delivers  his  own 
speech — from  a  medical  point  of  view — and  shows 
how  Love,  like  a  good  and  great  physician,  reconciles 
conflicting  elements,  and  produces  harmony  both  in 
the  physical  world  and  in  mankind. 

Then  Aristophanes  (who  has  used  the  doctor's 
remedy)  opens,  as  he  says,  a  new  line  of  argument, 
and  gives  a  whimsical  account  of  the  origin  of  the  sexes, 
which  reads  as  if  Plato  meant  it  as  a  parody  of  his 
ov/n  myths.  Once  upon  a  time  (he  says)  man  had 
three  sexes  and  a  double  nature:  besides  this,  he  was 
perfectly  round,  and  had  four  hands  and  four  feet, — 
one  head,  with  two  faces  looking  opposite  ways,  set  on 
a  single  neck.  When  these  creatures  pleased,  they 
could  walk  as  men  do  now,  but  if  they  wanted  to  go 
faster,  they  would  roll  over  and  over  with  all  their  four 
legs  in  the  air,  like  a  tumbler  turning  somersaults; 
and  their  pride  and  strength  were  such  that  they  made 
open  war  upon  the  gods.  Jupiter  resented  their  in- 
solence, but  hardly  liked  to  kill  them  with  thunder- 
bolts, as  the  gods  would  then  lose  their  sacrifices.      At 


THE  SYMPOSIUM.  51 

last  he  hit  upon  a  plan.  "I  will  cut  them  in  two," 
he  said,  "  so  that  they  shall  walk  on  two  legs  instead 
of  four.  They  will  then  be  only  half  as  insolent,  but 
twice  as  numerous,  and  we  shall  get  twice  as  many 
sacrifices."  This  was  done,  and  the  two  halves  are 
continually  going  about  looking  for  one  another;*  and 
if  we  mortals  (says  Aristophanes,  with  a  comic  air  of 
apprehension)  are  not  obedient  to  the  gods,  there  is 
a  danger  that  we  shall  be  split  up  again,  and  we  shall 
have  to  go  about  in  basso-relievo,  like  those  figures 
with  only  half  a  nose  which  you  may  see  sculptured 
on  our  columns. 

Agathon,  the  young  tragic  poet,  then  takes  up 
the  parable.  Love  is  the  best  and  fairest  of  the  gods, 
walking  in  soft  places,  with  a  grace  that  is  all  his  own, 
and  nestling  among  the  flowers  of  beauty.  Again, 
Love  is 

"the  wonder  of  the  wise,  the  amazement  of  the  gods;  desired 
by  those  who  have  no  part  in  him,  and  precious  to  those  who 
have  the  better  part  in  him ;  parent  of  delicacy,  luxury,  desire, 
fondness,  softness,  grace ;  careful  of  the  good,  uncareful  of  the 
evil.  In  every  word,  work,  wish,  fear— pilot,  helper,  defender, 
savior;  glory  of  gods  and  men."— J. 

Lastly,  Socrates  tells  them  a  story,  which  he  has 
heard  from  DIotima,  "a  wise  woman."  Love  is  not 
in  reality  a  god  at  all,  but  a  spirit  which  spans  the 
gulf  between  heaven  and  earth,  carrying  to  the  gods 
the  prayers  of  men,  and  to  men  the  commands  of 
the  gods.  He  is  the  child  of  Plenty  and  Poverty. 
Like  his  mother,  he  is  always  poor  and  in  misery, 

*  "  He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man. 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  a  she; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence 
Whose  fullness  of  perfection  lies  in  him." 

Shakspeare,  "  King  John." 


52  PLATO. 

without  house  or  home  to  cover  him ;  like  his  father, 
"lie is  a  hunter  of  men,  and  a  bold  intriguer,  philoso- 
jDher,  enchanter,  sorcerer,  and  sophist,"  hovering  be- 
tween life  and  death,  plenty  and  want,  knowledge  and 
ignorance.  Love  is  something  more  than  the  desire  of 
beauty;— it  is  the  instinct  of  immortality  in  a  mortal 
creature.  Hence  parents  wish  for  children,  who  shall 
come  after  them,  and  take  their  place  and  preserve  their 
names;  and  the  poet  and  the  warrior  are  inspired  by 
the  hope  of  a  fame  which  shall  live  forever.  And  Dio- 
tima  (continues  Socrates)  unfolded  to  me  greater  myster- 
ies than  these.  He  who  has  the  instinct  of  true  love,  and 
can  discern  the  relations  of  true  beauty  in  every  form, 
will  go  on  from  strength  to  strength  until  at  last  the 
vision  is  revealed  to  him  of  a  single  science,  and  he 
"will  suddenly  perceive  a  nature  of  wondrous  beauty 
— in  the  likeness  of  no  human  face  or  form,  but  ab- 
solute, simple,  separate,  and  everlasting — not  clogged 
with  the  pollutions  of  mortality,  and  alV  the  colors 
and  vanities  of  human  life." 

The  murmur  of  applause  with  which  this  speech  is 
greeted  has  hardly  died  away,  when  a  loud  knocking 
is  heard  at  the  outer  gate,  and  the  voice  of  Alcibiades 
shouting  for  Agatbon.  Presently  he  staggers  in,  at 
the  head  of  a  troop  of  revelers,  flushed  with  wine,  and 
crowned  with  a  wreath  of  ivy-leaves  and  violets.  Though 
he  is  drunk  already  (as  he  tells  the  company),  he  orders 
one  of  the  slaves  to  fill  a  huge  wine-cooler  "holding 
more  than  two  quarts,"  which  he  drains,  and  then  has 
it  filled  again  for  Socrates,  who  also  empties  it.  "  Why 
are  they  so  silent  and  sober?"  Alcibiades  asks;  and 
Agathon  explains  to  him  that  they  have  all  been 
making  speeches  in  praise  of  Love,  and  that  it  will  be 
his  turn  to  speak  next. 


THE  SYMPOSIUM.  53 

Alcibiades  readily  a-^sents;  but  instead  of  taking  Love 
as  his  topic,  he  gives  an  account  of  his  intercourse  with 
Socrates.  His  face  (be  says)  is  like  those  masks  of 
Sllenus,  which  conceal  the  image  of  a  god:  he  is  as 
ugly  as  the  satyr  Marsyas ;  but,  like  Marsyas,  he  charms 
the  souls  of  all  who  hear  him  with  the  music  of  his 
words.  "  I  myself  am  conscious  "  (Alcibiades  continues) 
"that  if  I  did  not  shut  my  ears  against  him,  and  fly 
from  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  he  would  enchain  me 
until  I  grew  old  sitting  at  his  feet.  For  he  makes  me 
confess  that  I  ought  not  to  live  as  I  do,  neglecting  the 
needs  of  my  own  soul,  and  occupying  myself  with  the 
affairs  of  the  Aihenians;  therefore  I  stop  my  ears,  and 
tear  myself  away  from  him.  He  is  the  only  person  who 
ever  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself — a  feeling  which 
you  might  think  was  not  in  my  nature,  and  there  is 
no  one  else  who  has  that  effect  on  me.  .  .  .  And 
oftentimes  I  wish  he  were  dead;  and  yet  I  know  that  I 
should  be  much  more  sorry  than  glad,  if  he  were  to  die." 

Then  he  goes  on  to  tell  some  anecdotes  of  the  tem- 
perance of  Socrates,  his  endurance  of  fatigue,  and  his 
personal  courage ;  and  he  assures  them,  in  conclusion, 
that  they  will  never  find  any  other  man  who  in  the 
least  resembles  this  wonderful  being. 

Again  the  doors  are  violently  opened,  and  a  fresh 
band  of  revelers  enter.  All  is  now  confusion  and 
uproar.  Phaedrus,  the  physician,  and  some  of  the 
more  sober  spirits,  wisely  take  their  departure;  while 
the  few  who  remain  settle  down  to  make  a  night  of  it. 
Aristodenius  (who  tells  the  story)  falls  asleep  himself, 
and  is  only  awakened  by  the  cocks  crowing  at  day- 
break. All  the  last  night's  party  have  gone,  or  are 
asleep  on  their  couches  in  the  room,  except  Agathon, 
Aristophanes,  and  Socrates.     These  three  are  still  pass- 


54  PLATO. 

ing  a  large  Vine-cup  from  one  to  the  other;  and 
Socrates  is  giv'ng  the  two  dramatists  a  lecture  on  their 
own  art,  and  proving  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  the 
genius  of  Tragedy  and  Comedy  is  the  same.  His 
hearers  are  much  too  sleepy  to  argue  with  or  contra- 
dict him;  and  at  last  the  v/ine  takes  effect  on  Aris- 
tophanes, who  drops  under  the  table,  where  Agathon 
soon  follows.  Socrates  puts  them  to  sleep,  and  then 
goes  tranquilly  on  his  way— takes  his  bath  at  the 
Lyceum,  and  passes  the  day  as  usual. 

The  following  Dialogue,  though  its  main  purpose  is 
an  attack  upon  the  popular  passion  for  Rhetoric,  is 
perhaps  more  interesting  as  a  social  picture : 

PII^DRUS. 

It  is  a  hot  summer  afternoon,  and  Socrates  meets 
young  Phaedrus  (who  was  one  of  the  guests  at  Aga- 
thon's  banquet  (walking  out  for  air  and  exercise  be- 
yond the  city  walls,  for  he  has  been  sittmg  since  dawn 
listening  to  the  famous  rhetorician  Lysias.  Socrates 
banters  him  on  his  admiration  for  Lysias,  and  at  last 
extorts  from  him  the  confession  that  he  has  the  actual 
manuscript  of  the  essay  which  he  had  heard  read 
hidden  under  his  cloak;  and,  after  some  assume! 
reluctance,  Phadrus  consents  that  they  shall  walk  on 
to  some  quiet  spot  where  they  can  read  it  together. 
So  they  turn  aside  from  the  highroad,  and  follow  the 
stream  of  the  Ilissus— cooling  their  feet  in  the  water 
as  they  walk — until  they  reach  a  charming  resting- 
place,  shaded  by  a  plane  tree,  where  the  air  is  laden 
with  the  scents  and  sounds  of  summer,  and  the  agnus 
castus,  with  its  purple  and  v/hite  blossoms,  is  in  full 
bloom;  while  above  them  the  cicalas  are  chirruping, 
and  at  their  feet  is  the  soft  grass  and  the  cool  water, 
with  images  of  the  Nymphs  who  guard  the  spot. 


PH^DRUS.  55 

"My  dear  Phsedrus,"  says  Socrates,  "you  are  an 
admirable  guide. " 

"You,  Socrates,  are  sucli  a  stay-at-home,  that  you 
know  nothing  outside  the  city  walls,  and  never  take  a 
country  walk." 

"Very  true,"  says  Socrates;  "  trees  and  fields  tell  me 
nothing:  men  are  my  teachers;*  but  only  tempt  me 
with  the  chance  of  a  discusssion,  and  you  may  lead  me 
all  round  Attica.  Read  on."  And  Phaedras  accord- 
ingly reads  the  formal  and  rhetorical  essay  to  which 
he  had  been  listening  m  the  morning.  It  is  on  a 
somewhat  wasted  theme — the  advantages  of  a  sober 
friendship,  which  lasts  a  lifetime,  over  the  jealousies 
and  torments  caused  by  a  spasmodic  and  fleeting  love. 

Socrates,  with  an  irony  which  even  Phaedrus  sees 
through,  professes  to  be  charmed  with  the  balanced 
phrases  and  the  harmonious  cadence  of  the  essay  which 
has  just  been  read;  but  he  hints  that,  if  he  is  allowed 
to  use  a  few  commonplaces,  he  too  might  add  some- 
thing to  what  Lysias  has  said;  and  then,  inspired  (as 
he  says)  by  the  genius  loci,  he  delivers  himself  of  a 
speech,  denouncing,  in  a  mock  heroic  style,  the  selfish 
infatuation  and  the  wolf-like  passion  of  the  lover. 
But  he  almost  immediately  pretends  to  be  alarmed  at 
his  own  words;  for  the  divine  monitor  within  tells  him 
that  he  has  insulted  the  majesty  of  Cupid,  and  forbids 
him  to  recross  the  brook  until  he  has  recanted  his 
blasphemy.     And  so  he  does. 

He  had  previously  said  that  the  lover  was  mad;  but 
this  madness  is,  he  explains,  really  akin  to  the  inspira- 

*  Socrates  would  have  agreed  on  this  point  with  Dr.  Johnson. 
"  Sir,  when  you  have  seen  one  green  field,  j'ou  have  seen  all 
green  fields.  Sir,  I  like  to  look  upon  men.— Let  us  walk  down 
Cheapside."' 


56  PLATO. 

tion  of  the  prophet  and  Pythian  priestess,  or  the  frenzy 
of  the  poet,  and  is,  in  fact,  the  greatest  blessing  which 
heaven  has  given  to  men.  And  then  he  weaves  his 
ideas  of  the  oi  igin  of  Love  into  a  famous  myth,  which 
will  be  found  elsewhere.* 

"lean  fancy,"  says  Socrates,  laughingly,  "that  our 
friends  the  cicalas  overhead  are  listening  to  our  fine 
talk,  and  will  carry  a  good  report  of  us  to  their 
mistresses  the  Muses.  For  you  must  know  that  these 
little  creatures  were  once  human  beings,  long  before 
the  Muses  were  heard  of;  but,  when  the  Muses  came, 
they  forgot  to  eat  or  drink  in  their  exceeding  love  of 
song,  and  so  died  of  hunger;  but  now  they  sing  on  for 
ever,  and  hunger  and  thirst  no  more.  Let  us  talk, 
then,  instead  of  idling  all  the  afternoon,  or  going  to 
sleep  like  a  couple  of  slaves  or  sheep  at  a  fountain-side. " 

Then  follows  a  severe  criticism  on  the  Rhetoric  of 
the  day.  Truth  and  accurate  definition,  says  Socrates, 
are  the  two  first  requirements  of  good  speaking;  but 
neither  of  these  are  necessarily  found  in  an  essay  like 
that  of  Lysias  :  and  rhetoric,  though  it  undoubtedly 
influences  the  rising  generation,  has  done  little  in  the 
way  of  perfecting  oratory,  which  depends  rather  on  the 
natural  genius  of  the  speaker  than  on  any  rules  of  art; 
— indeed,  Pericles  himself  learnt  more  from  Auaxa- 
goras  than  from  the  Rhetoricians. 

Writing,  continues  Socrates,  is  far  inferior  to  speech. 
It  is  a  spurious  form  of  knowledge;  and  Thamuz,  the 
old  King  of  Egypt,  was  right  in  denouncing  letters  as 
likely  to  spoil  men's  memories,  and  produce  an  unreal 
and  evanescent  learning.  Letters,  like  paintings, 
"preserve  a  solemn  silence,  and  have  not  a  word  to 

*  See  p.  158. 


Bay  for  themselves;"  and,  like  hothouse  plants,  they 
come  quickly  to  their  bloom,  and  as  quickly  fade  away. 
"  Nobler  far,"  he  says,  "is  the  serious  pursuit  of  the 
dialectician,  who  find  a  congenial  soil,  and  there  with 
knowledge  engrafts  and  sows  words  which,  are  able  to 
help  themselves  and  him  who  planted  them,  and  are 
not  unfruitful,  but  have  in  them  seeds  which  may  baar 
fruit  in  other  natures  nurtered  in  other  ways — making 
the  seed  everlasting,  and  the  possessors  happy  to  the 
utmost  extent  of  human  happiness."* 

But  severe  as  he  is  on  ordinary  Rhetoricians,  he 
makes  an  exception  in  favor  of  Isocrates .  Some  divine 
instinct  tells  him  that  the  temper  of  this  young  orator  is 
cast  in  a  finer  mould  than  that  of  Lysias  and  his  coterie; 
and  that  some  day,  when  he  grows  older,  his  genius 
will  surpass  all  the  speakers  of  his  day. 

The  heat  of  the  day  is  now  past,  and  the  two  friends 
prepare  to  depart;  but  first  Socrates  offers  a  solemn 
prayer  to  the  deities  who  guard  this  charming  spot 
where  they  have  been  resting  all  the  afternoon. 

"O  beloved  Pan,  and  all  ye  gods  whose  dwelling  is  in  this 
place,  grant  rae  to  be  beautiful  in  soul,  and  all  that  I  possess  of 
outward  things  to  be  at  peace  with  them  within .  Teach  me  to 
think  wisdom  the  only  riches.  And  give  me  so  much  wealth, 
and  so  much  only,  as  a  good  and  holy  man  could  manage  or 
enjoy.  Phaedrus,  want  we  anything  more?  For  my  prayer  is 
finished." 

Phoed.  "  Pray  that  I  may  be  even  as  yourself;  for  the  blessings 
of  friends  are  common,  "t 

It  was  hardly  possible  that  Socrates  should  be  popu- 
lar— puzzling  and  refuting  all  he  met.  "  The  world 
cannot  make  me  out"  (he  says  to  Thesetetus),  '*there- 

*  Jowett's  Plato,  i.  614. 
t  Sewell- s  Dialogues  of  Piato,  199. 


58  PLATO. 

fore  they  only  say  of  me  that  I  am  an  extremely  strange 
being,  who  drive  men  to  their  wits'  end."  His  passion 
for  conversation  in  itself  would  annoy  many;  and  they 
probably  regarded  him  as  a  garrulous  and  impertinent 
pedant,  whom  it  was  wise  to  avoid.  "  I  hate  this  beg- 
gar who  is  eternally  talking "  (says  Eupolis^  the 
comedy -writer),  "  and  who  has  debated  every  subject 
upon  earth,  except  where  to  get.  his  dinner."  And 
often  this  vague  feeling  of  dislike  would  grow  into  a 
strong  personal  hatred.  For  no  man  likes  to  be  de- 
feated on  his  own  ground,  or  to  be  forced  to  confess 
himself  ignorant  of  his  favorite  subject  or  theory,  still 
less  to  be  stultified  and  made  ridiculous  before  a  crowd 
of  bystanders.  There  were  numbers  who  had  suffered 
this  humiliation  from  the  unsparing  "irony"  of  Socrates, 
and  their  collective  enmity  grew  daily  more  formidable. 
Again,  few  who  had  seen  the  "Clouds"  of  Aristophanes 
acted  some  twenty  years  previously,  had  forgotten  Soc- 
rates, as  he  appeared  on  the  stage, — dangling  in  a  basket 
between  heaven  and  earth, — the  master  of  "the  think- 
ing-shop," who  was  ready  to  make,  "for  a  considera- 
tion," the  worse  appear  the  better  reason.  And  some 
probability  had  been  given  to  this  picture  by  the  recent 
career  of  two  of  his  friends — probably  at  that  time  the 
most  detested  names  in  Aihens— Alcibiades,  the  selfish 
renegade,  and  Critias,  the  worst  of  the  Thirty  Tyrants. 
But  after  all,  the  great  offence  of  Socrates  (as  Mr.  Groto 
points  out*)  was  one  which  no  society,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern, ever  forgives — his  disdain  of  conventionality,  and 
his  disregard  of  the  sovereign  power  of  Custom.  As  we 
shall  see  in  the  'Dialogues  of  Search,'  he  questions 
and  criticises,  and  often  destroys,  the  orthodox  com- 


*  Plato,  i.  250. 


APOLOGY.  59 

monplaces  of  morality,  handed  down  from  father  to 
son,  and  consecrated  in  the  eyes  of  the  Athenians  by 
tradition  and  by  those  mighty  household  goddesses, 
*'  Use  and  Wont:" 

"  Grey  nurses,  loving  nothing  new." 

In  short,  Socrates  is  a  "dissenter,"  who  will  maintain 
his  right  of  private  judgment,  and  will  speak  what  his 
conscience  tells  him  to  be  right — though  it  be  his  own 
opinion  against  the  world.  Hence  there  grew  up  a 
widespread  antipathy  against  this  man  who  continually 
set  at  defiance  the  creed  sanctioned  by  custom  and 
society.  This  at  length  found  its  vent  in  the  tablet  of 
indictment,  which  was  hung  up  one  morning  in  the 
portico  where  such  notices  were  displayed— "  Socrates 
is  guilty  of  crime,  first,  for  not  worshipping  the  gods, 
whom  the  city  worships,  but  introducing  new  divini- 
ties of  his  own;  secondly,  for  corrupting  the  youth. 
The  penalty  due  is  Death." 

His  three  accusers  were  Anytus,  a  wealthy  trades- 
man; Mektus,  an  obscure  poet;  and  Lycon,  a  rhetori- 
cian. Socrates  himself  seems  to  have  been  little  moved 
by  the  danger  of  his  position,  and  to  have  hardly 
wished  for  an  acquittal.  He  felt  that  he  had  done  his 
work,  and  that  "  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  gods  should 
deem  it  better  for  him  to  die  now  than  to  live  longer."* 
Certainly  the  tone  of  his  Defence,  as  w^e  have  it  from 
Plato,  is  more  like  a  defiance  than  an  apology ;  and  the 
speaker  seems,  as  Cicero  said,  not  so  much  a  suppliant 
or  an  accused  person,  as  the  lord  and  master  of  his 
judges,  f 

He  begins  by  disclaiming  any  resemblance  to  that 
Socrates  whom  they  had  seen  on  the  stage — the  star- 

*  Xen.  M  m.,  IV.  viii.  4.  t  Cic,  de  Oiat.,  i.  54. 


GO  PLATO, 

gazer  and  arch- Sophist — for  he  knows  nothing  of 
science,  and  had  never  taken  a  fee  for  teaching.  His 
life  has  been  passed  in  trying  to  find  a  wiser  man  than 
himself,  and  in  exposing  self-conceit  and  pretentious 
ignorance.  To  this  mission  he  has  devoted  himself,  in 
spite  of  poverty  and  ill-repute. 

Next  he  turns  upon  Meletus,  his  accuser,  and  cross- 
examines  him  in  open  court.  "  How  can  you,"  he 
asks,  "call  we  the  corrupter  of  the  youth,  when  their 
fathers  and  brothers  would  bear  witness  that  it  is  not 
so?  How  can  you  call  me  the  worshipper  of  strange 
gods,  when  the  heresies  of  Anaxagoras  are  declaimed 
on  the  stage,  and  sold  in  our  streets?" 

Then  he  turns  to  the  judges  again.  As  for  death, — 
is  it  likely  that  one  who  has  never  shunned  danger  on 
the  battle-field — who  darefl  to  record  his  solitary  vote 
at  the  trial  of  the  generals,  in  defence  of  the  innocent 
and  in  defiance  of  the  popular  clamor — who  had 
braved  the  anger  of  the  Thirty  Tyrants, — is  it  likely 
that  he  would  desert  the  post  of  duty  now  f 

"O  Athenians!"  he  says,  solemnly,  "I  both  love  and  honor 
you;  but  as  long  as  I  live  and  have  the  power,  I  shall  never  cease 
to  seek  the  truth,  and  exhort  you  to  follow  it.  For  I  seem  to 
have  been  sent  by  God  to  rouse  you  from  your  lethargy,  as  you 
may  see  a  gadfly  stinging  a  strong  and  sluggish  horse.  Pei-haps 
you  will  be  angry  at  being  thus  awakened  from  your  sleep. 
Shake  me  off,  then,  and  take  your  rest,  and  sleep  on— forever. 
I  shall  not  try  (as  others  have  done)  to  move  your  pity  by  tears 
and  prayers,  or  by  the  sight  of  my  weeping  children— for  Socra- 
tes is  not  as  other  men  are;  and  if,"  he  concludes,  "  O  men  of 
Athens,  by  force  of  persuasion  or  entreaty  I  could  overpower 
your  oaths,  then  I  should  indeed  be  teaching  you  to  believe  that 
there  are  no  gods,  and  convict  myself,  in  mj'^  own  defence,  of  not 
believing  in  them.  But  that  is  not  the  case,  for  I  do  believe  that 
there  are  gods,  and  in  a  far  higher  sense  than  that  in  which  any 
of  my  accusers  believe  in  them.    And  to  you  and  to  God  I  com- 


APOLOGY.  61 

mit  my  cause,  to  be  determined  by  you  as  is  best,  both  for  you 
and  for  me."— J. 

It  was  not  likely  that  any  jury  would  be  convinced 
by  such  a  speech  as  this — marked  throughout  by  a 
"  contempt  of  court"  unparalleled  in  Athenian  history; 
and  accordingly  Socrates  was  found  guilty  on  both  counts 
of  the  indictment— though  by  a  majority  of  only  five 
votes  out  of  some  550.  It  now  remained  for  himself 
to  propose  (as  was  the  custom  in  such  trials  at  Athens) 
fcome  counter-penalty  in  place  of  death. 

But  now  that  he  is  a  condemned  criminal,  his  tone 
becomes  even  more  lofty  than  before.  Of  right,  he 
says,  they  should  have  honored  him  as  a  public  bene- 
factor, and  have  maintained  him,  like  an  Olympic 
victor,  at  the  expense  of  the  nation.  For  his  own  part, 
he  would  not  even  trouble  himself  to  propose  an  alter- 
native penalty;  but  as  his  friends  wish  it,  and  will 
raise  the  sum  (for  he  is  too  poor  himself),  then  a  f  ne 
of  thirty  minae  is  what  he  will  offer  as  the  price  of 
life. 

Such  a  sum  (£120)  was  plainly  an  utterly  inade- 
quate fine  from  an  Athenian  point  of  view,  consider- 
ing the  gravity  of  the  crimes  of  which  he  was  accused, 
and  that  the  utmost  penalty  of  the  law  was  the  alter- 
native. The  question  is  again  put  to  the  vote,  and 
Socrates  is  condemned  to  death — the  majority  this  time 
being  far  larger  than  before. 

Then  he  makes  his  farewell  address  to  his  judges. 
They  have  condemned  him  because  he  would  not  con- 
descend to  tears  or  entreaties;  and  perhaps  if  he  had 
tlone  so  he  might  have  escaped.  But  on  such  terms 
he  prefers  death  to  life,  and  indeed  it  is  good  for  him 
to  die;  for  death  is  either  annihilation,  where  sense 
and  feeling  are  not,  or  it  is  a  passage  of  the  soul  from 


G2  PLATO. 

this  world  to  another.  In  either  case,  he  will  be  at 
rest.  He  will  sleep  forever  without  a  dream;  or  he 
will  find  in  Ilades  better  men,  and  a  juster  judgment, 
and  truer  judges,  than  he  has  found  on  earth;  and 
there  he  will  converse  with  Homer  and  Orpheus,  and 
the  great  men  of  old;  questioning  the  heroic  spirits 
whom  he  meets  there,  as  has  been  his  wont  to  ques- 
tion living  men,  and  finding  out  who  are  wise  and  who 
are  foolish  below  the  earth. 

"  What  infinite  delight,"  he  concludes,  "  there  would  be  in  con- 
versing with  them  and  asking  them  questions!  For  in  that 
world  they  do  not  put  a  man  to  death  for  this,— certainly  not. 
For  besides  being  happier  in  that  world  than  this,  they  will  be 
immortal,  if  what  is  said  is  true. 

'•  Wherefore,  O  ye  judges,  be  of  good  cheer  about  death,  and 
know  this  of  a  truth— that  no  evil  can  happen  to  a  good  man, 
either  in  life  or  after  death.  He  and  his  are  not  neglected  by  the 
gods;  nor  has  my  own  approaching  end  happened  by  mere 
chance.  But  I  see  clearly  that  to  die  and  be  released  was  better 
for  me ;  and  therefore  the  oracle  gave  no  sign.  For  which  reason 
also  I  am  not  angry  with  my  accusers  or  condemners;  they  have 
done  me  no  harm,  though  neither  of  them  meant  to  do  me  any 
good;  and  for  this  I  may  gently  blame  them.     .    .    . 

"  The  hour  of  departure  has  arrived,  and  we  go  our  ways— I  to 
die,  and  you  to  live.     Which  is  better,  God  only  knows."— J. 

So  ends  this  famous  defence  which  Plato  has  put  into 
his  master's  mouth;  and  whether  the  substance  of  it 
was  actually  delivered  or  not,  assuredly  "  few  persons 
will  be  found  to  wish  that  Socrates  shculd  have  de- 
fended himself  otherwise."  The  account  of  his  subse- 
quent imprisonment  and  death  is  given  us  in  the  two 
following  Dialogues. 

CRITO. 

Thirty  days  elapsed  before  the  sentence  passed  on 
Socrates  could  be  carried  into  eiiect.  Every  year  tke 
Athenians  seat  a  vessel  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Delos,  la 


CRITO.  63 

memory  of  the  preservation  of  their  city  in  the  days 
of  Tbesus;  and  from  the  moment  tliat  the  priest  of 
Apollo  crowned  the  vessel  before  it  left  the  harbor,  to 
the  hour  of  its  return,  there  intervened  a,  holy  season, 
during  which  the  city  miglit  be  polluted  by  no  exe- 
cutions. Now  it  happened  that  the  vessel  sailed  on 
the  day  that  Socrates  was  condemned,  and  his  exe- 
cution was  accordingly  deferred  for  a  month. 

His  friends  daily  assembled  in  his  prison,  and  the 
long  hours  were  passed  in  conversation  on  the  usual 
subjects.  One  morning  Crito  comes  earlier  than  usual 
— when  it  is  hardly  light— and  finds  Socrates  calmly 
sleeping.  ' '  Why  have  you  come  at  this  unusual  time?" 
asks  Socrates  on  waking.  "  I  bring  sad  news,"  is  the 
reply;  "the  sacred  vessel  has  been  seen  off  Cape 
Sunium  on  its  way  home,  and  will  reach  Athens  by 
to-morrow."  But  Socrates  is  prepared  for  this.  H3 
has  seen  in  a  vision  of  the  night  "the  likeness  of  a 
woman,  fair  and  comely,  clothed  in  white  raiment,  who 
called  to  him  and  said — "O  Socrates,  the  third  day 
hence  to  Pthia  thou  shalt  go."  He  is  inclined  to  be- 
lieve that  the  dream  will  prove  true,  and  that  on  the 
third  day  he  will  be  dead. 

Then  Crito  earnestly  implores  him  to  use  the  little 
time  that  is  left  in  miking  his  escape.  Neither  friends 
nor  money  will  be  wanting;  the  jailer  can  be  bribed, 
and  the  mouths  of  the  Informers  stopped  with  gold. 
He  will  find  a  home  ready  for  him  in  Thessaly,  where 
he  will  be  loved  and  honored.  "It  would  be  sheer 
folly,"  Crito  continues,  "  to  play  into  the  hands  of 
his  enemies,  and  to  leave  his  children  outcasts  on  the 
world.  If  the  sentence  of  death  is  carried  out,  it  will 
be  an  absurd  and  miserable  end  of  a  trial  which  ought 
to  have  been  brought  to  another  issue." 


6i  PLATO. 

But  Socrates  has  only  one  answer  to  these  arguments, 
which  might  have  persuaded  any  but  himself.  Would 
it  be  right  or  lawful  for  him  to  escape  now?  Shall  he 
who  for  half  a  century  has  been  preaching  obedience 
to  the  law,  now,  in  the  hour  of  trial,  stultify  the  precepts 
of  a  lifetime?  For  all  those  years  he  has  teen  enjoy- 
ing the  privileges  of  citizenship  and  the  blessings  of  a 
free  state,  and  shall  he  now  be  tempted  by  the  fear  of 
death  to  break  his  tacit  covenant  with  the  laws,  and 
turn  his  back  upon  his  city  "like  a  miserable  slave?'' 

He  can  fancy  the  spirit  of  the  laws  themselves  up- 
braiding him : 

•'Listea,  then,  Socrates,  to  us  who  have  brought  j^ou  up. 
Think  not  of  hfe  and  children  first,  and  of  justice  afterwards* 
but  of  justice  first,  that  you  may  be  justified  before  the  princes 
of  the  world  below.  For  neither  will  you  nor  any  that  belong  to 
you  be  happier  or  holier  or  juster,  in  this  life,  or  happier  in  an 
other,  if  you  do  as  Crito  bids.  Now,  you  depart  in  innocence,  a 
sufferer  and  not  a  doer  of  evil;  a  victim  not  of  laws  but  of  men- 
But  if  you  go  forth  returning  evil  for  evil  and  injury  for  injury, 
breaking  the  covenants  and  agreements  which  you  have  made 
with  us,  and  wronging  those  whom  you  ought  least  to  wrong- 
that  is  to  say,  yourself,  j-our  friends,  your  country,  and  us— we 
shall  be  angry  with  you  while  you  hve,  and  our  brethren,  the 
laws  in  the  world  below,  will  receive  you  as  an  enemy,  for  they 
will  know  that  you  have  done  your  best  to  destroy  us.  Listen, 
then,  to  us,  and  not  to  Crito." 

Tliis  is  the  voice  which  I  seem  to  hear  murmuring  in  my  ear:-, 
like  the  sound  of  the  flute  in  the  ears  of  the  mystic;  that  voice, 
I  say,  is  humming  in  my  ears,  and  prevents  me  from  hearing 
any  other.  And  I  know  that  anything  more  which  you  may  say 
will  be  vain.    Yet  speak,  if  you  have  anything  to  say. 

Cr.  I  have  nothing  to  say,  Socrates. 

Soc.  Then  let  me  follow  the  intimations  of  the  will  of  God.  ^J. 

PH.EDO. 

Two  days  after  this,  his  friends  assemble  at  the 
prison-doors  for  the  last  time,  somewhat  earlier  than 


PH^DO.  65 

usual.  There  is  a  short  delay,  for  the  sheriffs  have 
come  to  take  the  chains  off  the  prisoner  preparatory  to 
his  death. 

The  jailer  soon  admits  them,  and  "on  entering  "  (says  Phagdo, 
who  had  been  present  himself)  "we  found  Socrates  just  released 
from  chains,  and  Xanthippe  sitting  by  him  holding  his  child  in 
her  arms.  When  she  savv  us,  she  uttered  a  cry  and  said,  as 
women  will,  *  O  Socrates,  this  is  the  last  time  that  either  you  will 
converse  with  your  friends,  or  they  with  3'ou ! '  Socrates  turned 
to  Crito  and  said,  '  Crito,  let  some  one  take  her  home.'  Some  of 
Crito's  people  accordingly  led  her  away,  crying  out  and  beating 
herself."— J. 

Socrates  then  proceeds  to  talk  in  his  usual  easy 
manner.  He  has  several  times  heen  told  in  dreams 
"  to  make  music;*'  aud  he  has  accordingly  been  turn- 
ing some  fables  of  >^sop  into  verse.  "TellEvenus 
this,"  he  says,  "and  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer;  say 
that  I  would  have  him  come  after  me,  if  he  be  a  wise 
man,  and  not  tarry;  and  that  to-day  I  am  likely  to  be 
going,  for  the  Athenians  say  I  must."  Then  he  con- 
siders the  question — "Why,  in  a  case  where  death  is 
better  than  life,  a  man  should  not  hasten  his  own  end?" 
He  finds  the  answer  to  be,  Because  man  is  a  prisoner, 
and  has  no  right  to  release  himself,  being,  in  fact,  a 
sort  of  possession  of  the  gods,  who  will  summon  him  at 
thtir  pleasure.* 

"Then,"  says  Cebes,  one  of  the  pf*rty,  "the  wise 
mau  will  sorrow  and  the  fool  rejoice  at  leaving  his 
masters  the  gods,  and  passing  out  of  life." 

"  Not  so,"  is  the  reply;  "for  I  am  persuaded  that  I 
am  going  to  other  gods,  who  are  wise  and  good,   and 

*  We  may  compare  the  argument  used  by  Despair,  and  the 
answer  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight,  in  Spenser  (Fairy  Queen,  I 
ix.  40,  41). 


66  PLATO. 

also  (I  trust)  to  men  departed,  who  are  better  than  those 
I  leave  behind;  therefore  I  do  not  grieve,  as  otherwise 
I  might,  for  I  have  good  hope  that  there  is  yet  some- 
thing awaiting  the  dead,  and,  as  has  been  said  of  old, 
some  far  better  lot  for  the  good  man  than  for  the 
wicked." 

He  then  explains  the  grounds  on  which  he  builds 
this  hope  of  immortality.  Death,  he  says,  is  the 
happy  release  of  the  soul  from  the  body,  In  this  life 
our  highest  and  purest  thoughts  are  distracted  by 
cares  and  lusts,  and  diseases  inherent  in  the  flesh.  He 
is  wisest  who  keeps  himself  pure  till  the  hour  when 
the  Deity  Himself  is  pleased  to  release  him.  **  Then 
shall  the  foolishness  of  the  flesh  be  purged  away,  and 
we  shall  be  pure,  and  hold  converse  with  other  pure 
souls,  and  recognize  the  pure  light  everywhere,  which 
is  none  other  than  the  light  of  truth."  Hence  the  wise 
man  leaves  with  joy  a  world  where  his  higher  and 
ethereal  sense  is  trammeled  by  evil  and  impurity;  and 
his  whole  life  is  but  a  preparation  for  death,  or  rather 
an  initiation  into  the  mysteries  of  the  unseen  world. 
Many,  as  they  say,  join  the  procession  iu  such  mys- 
teries; but  few  are  really  chosen  for  initiation. 

No  fear  that  our  souls  will  vanish  like  smoke,  or 
that  the  dead  sleep  on  forever,  like  Endymion.  Ouf 
souls  are  born  again;  and  as  life  passes  into  death,  s6, 
in  the  circle  of  nature,  the  dead  must  pass  into  life; 
for  if  this  Vv^-'re  not  so,  all  things  musi  at  last  be 
swallowed  up  in  death. 

Again,  we  have  in  our  minds  latent  powers  of 
thought— ideas  of  beauty  and  cqualkj^ — which  are  not 
given  us  at  our  birth,  and  which  we  cannot  have  learnt 
from  experience.  Such  knowledge  is  but  the  soul's 
recollection  of  a  previous  state  of  existence. 


"  Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized."* 

It  is  only  the  mortal  part  of  us  (Socrates  continues) 
that  dies  when  earth  rerurns  to  earth.  The  pure  soul, 
herself  invisible,  departs  to  the  invisible  world — to 
the  divine,  the  immortal,  and  the  rational;  where  she 
dwells  in  bliss,  in  company  with  the  gods,  released 
from  the  errors  and  follies  of  men,  their  fears,  their 
unruly  passions,  and  all  other  evils  of  humanity.  But 
the  impure  soul  fears  to  go  down  to  Hades,  and  haunts 
the  earth  for  a  time  like  a  restless  ghost,  f 

Then,  by  a  further  train  of  reasoning,  Socrates  con- 
cludes that  the  soul  is  beyond  all  doubt  immortal  and 
imperishable.  This  being  so,  a  graver  question  fol- 
lows— "What  manner  of  persons  ought  we  ourselves 
to  be?"  "If  death  had  been  the  end  of  all  things, 
then  the  wicked  would  gain  by  dying;  for  they  would 
have  been  happily  rid  not  of  their  bodies  only,  but  of 
their  own  wickedness,  together  with  their  souls.  But 
now,  as  the  soul  plainly  appears  to  be  immortal,  no 
release  or  salvation  from  evil  can  be  found  except  in 
the  attainment  of  the  highest  virtue  and  wisdom.  For 
the  soul,  on  her  journey  to  the  world  below,  carries 
nothing  with  her  but  her  nurture  and  education."  After 
death  comes  the  judgment;  the  guardian  angel  of 
each  soul  conducts  her  through  the  road  with  many 
windings  that  leads  to  the  place  where  all  are  tried. 
After  this  the  impure  soul  wanders  without  a  guide  in 

*  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  Immortalit}-. 
t  "  Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy  shadows  damp, 
Oft  seen  in  chamel -vaults  and  sepulchres. 
Lingering,  and  sitting  by  a  new-made  grave. 
As  loth  to  leave  the  body  that  it  loved." 

—Milton,  "Comus,"  470 


^  PLATO. 

helpless  misery,  until  a  certain  period  is  accomplished, 
and  then  she  is  borne  away  to  her  own  place.  But 
the  pure  soul,  "arrayed  in  her  proper  jewels — tem- 
perance, and  justice,  and  courage,  and  nobility,  and 
truth" — dwells  forever  in  the  glorious  mansions  re- 
served for  the  elect. 

Thus  Socrates  ends  his  noble  profession  of  faith  in 
a  future  life — with  him  half  instinct,  half  conviction. 
His  " Non  omnis  moriar"  has  a  triumphant  ring  about 
it;  and,  like  the  swans  to  whom  he  compares  himself, 
*'who  sing  more  joyously  on  the  day  of  their  death 
than  they  ever  did  berore,"  he  rejoices  in  the  thought 
of  his  speedy  release  from  life,  and  looks  confidently 
beyond  the  grave. 

The  evening  is  fast  drawing  on,  and  the  shadows 
are  lengthening  on  the  Attic  hills,  when  Crito  asks 
him  if  he  has  any  last  directions  to  give  about  his 
children  or  about  his  burial.  "  Bury  me  in  any  way 
you  like,"  says  Socrates,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  humor; 
"  but  be  sure  that  you  get  hold  of  me,  and  that  I  don't 
run  away  from  you."  Then  he  turns  to  the  others 
and  says  with  a  smile,  "I  cannot  make  Crito  believe 
that  I  am  the  same  Socrates  who  have  been  talking 
and  conducting  the  argument.  lie  fancies  that  I  am 
the  other  Socrates  whom  he  will  soon  see — a  dead 
body — and  he  asks,  'How  he  shall  bury  me?'  You 
must  all  be  my  sureties  to  Crito,  that  I  shall  go  away, 
and  then  he  will  sorrow  less  at  my  death,  and  not  be 
grieved  when  he  sees  my  body  burned  or  buried." 

Then  he  takes  his  bath,  and  bids  farewell  to  his  wife 
and  children ;  and  by  this  time  the  sun  is  low  in  the 
heavens,  and  the  jailer  comes  in  to  tell  him  that  his 
hour  is  come — weeping  himself  as  he  utters  the  words. 


Soon  the  poison  is  brought.     Socrates  takes  the  cup, 
and 

"  in  the  gentlest  and  easiest  manner,  without  the  least  fear  or 
change  of  color  or  feature,  looking  at  the  man  with  all  his  eyes, 
Echecrates,  as  his  manner  was,  took  the  cup  and  said,  'What  do 
you  say  about  making  a  libation  out  of  this  cup  to  any  god  ?  May 
I.  or  not?'  The  man  answered,  '  We  only  prepare,  Socrates,  just 
so  much  as  we  deem  enough,'  'I  understand,'  he  said,  'j-et  I 
may  and  must  pray  to  the  gods  to  prosper  my  journey  from  this 
to  the  other  world-  may  this,  then,  which  is  my  prayer,  be 
granted  to  me.'  Then,  holding  the  cup  to  his  lips,  quite  readily 
and  cheerfully  he  drank  off  the  poison.  And  hitherto  most  of 
us  had  been  able  to  control  our  sorrow ;  but  now  when  we  saw  him 
drinking,  and  saw  too  that  he  had  finished  the  draught,  we 
could  no  longer  forbear,  and  in  spite  of  myself  my  own  tears 
were  flowing  fast;  so  that  I  covered  my  face  and  wept  over  my- 
self, for  certainly  I  was  not  weeping  over  him,  but  in  the 
thought  of  my  own  calamity  in  having  lost  such  a  companion. 
Nor  was  I  the  first;  for  Crito,  when  he  found  himself  unable  to 
restrain  his  tears,  had  got  up  and  moved  away,  and  I  followed; 
and  at  that  moment,  Apollodorus,  who  had  been  weeping  all  the 
time,  broke  out  into  a  loud  cry  which  made  cowards  of  us  all. 
Socrates  alone  retained  his  calmness.  'What  is  this  strange 
outcry?'  he  said.  '  I  sent  away  the  women  mainly  in  order  that 
they  might  not  offend  in  this  way,  for  I  have  heai'd  that  a  man 
should  die  in  peace.  Be  quiet,  then,  and  have  patience.'  When 
we  heard  that  we  were  ashamed,  and  refrained  our  tears;  and 
he  walked  about  until,  as  he  said,  his  legs  began  to  fail,  and 
then  he  laj^  on  his  back,  according  to  the  directions,  and  the 
man  who  gave  him  the  poison  now  and  then  looked  at  his  feet 
and  legs:  and  after  a  while  he  pressed  his  foot  hard,  and  asked 
him  if  he  could  feel,  and  he  said  'No;'  and  then  his  leg,  and  so 
upwards  and  upwards,  and  showed  us  that  he  was  cold  and  stiff. 
And  he  felt  them  himself,  and  said , '  When  the  poison  reaches 
the  heart,  that  will  be  the  end.'  He  was  baginning  to  feel  cold 
about  the  groin,  when  he  uncovered  his  face,  for  he  had  covered 
himself  up,  and  said  (they  were  his  last  words), '  Crito.  I  owe  a 
cock  to  Asclepius ;  will  you  remember  to  pay  the  debt?'  'The 
debt  shall  be  paid,'  said  Crito;  'is  there  anything  else?'  There 
was  no  answer  to  this  question ;  but  in  a  minute  or  two  a  move- 
ment was  heard,  and  the  attendants  uncovered  him ;  his  eyes 


70  PLATO. 

were  set,  and  Crito  closed  his  eyes  and  mouth.  Such  was  the 
end,  Echecrates,  of  our  friend,  whom  I  may  truly  call  the  wisest 
and  justest  and  best  of  all  the  men  whom  I  have  ever  known." 
—J. 

So  ends  the  *'  Phaedo;"  aud  as  we  close  the  volume, 
we  feel  as  though  we  too  had  lost  a  friend,  so  simply 
and  yet  so  touchingly  has  every  detail  of  that  last 
scene  in  the  prison  be  painted  for  us  by  a  master-hand. 
Even  across  the  lapse  of  centuries  the  picture  rises  be- 
fore us  distinct  and  lifelike,  as  it  was  to  the  mind  of 
the  writer  who  described  it, — the  passionate  grief  of 
Apollodorus,  the  despair  of  Crito,  the  silent  tears 
of  Phsedo — even  the  jailer  weeping,  and  turning  away 
his  face — and  the  composure  meanwhile  of  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  the  group,  talking  cheerfully,  and  play- 
ing with  Phaedo's  hair,  who  is  sitting  next  him. 
We  can  well  understand  the  mingled  feelings  of  the 
spectators  of  the  scene,  "I  could  hardly  believe' 
(says  Phaedo,  telling  the  story  to  Echecrates)  "that  I 
was  present  at  the  death  of  a  friend,  and  therefore  I 
did  not  pity  him;  his  mien  and  his  language  were  so 
noble  and  fearless  in  the  hour  of  death,  that  to  me  he 
appeared  blessed.  I  thought  that,  in  going  to  the 
other  world,  he  could  not  be  without  a  divine  call, 
and  that  he  would  be  happy,  if  any  man  ever  was, 
when  he  arrived  there;  and  therefore  I  did  not  pity 
him,  as  might  seem  natural  at  such  a  time.  But 
neither  could  I  feel  the  pleasure  which  I  usually  felt  in 
philosophical  discourse.  I  was  pleased,  and  I  was  also 
pained,  because  I  knew  that  he  was  soon  to  die;  and  this 
strange  mixture  of  feeling  was  shared  by  us  all:  we 
were  laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  especially  the 
excitable  Apollodorus." 


FHJSDO.  71 

Cicero  (who  was  by  no  means  tender-hearted)  de- 
clared that  he  could  never  read  the  "Phsedo"  without 
tears;  and  we  all  know  the  story  of  "  the  fair  pupil  of 
Ascham,  who,  while  the  horns  were  sounding  and  dogs 
in  full  cry,  sat  in  the  lonely  oriel  with  eyes  riveted  to 
that  immortal  page  which  tells  how  meekly  and 
bravely  the  first  martyr  of  intellectual  liberty  took  th© 
cup  from  his  weeping  jailer."* 

*  Macaxilay's  Essay  on  Lord  Bacotu 


CHAPTER  IV. 


DIALOGUES  OF  SEARCH. 


LACHES — CHARMIDES — LYSIS — MENO — EUTHYPHRO 
CRATYLUS— THE^TETUS. 

*'  Socrates  used  to  ask  questions,  but  did  not  answer  them,  for 
he  professed  not  to  know.'''— Aristotle. 

In  the  Dialogues  which  follow,  we  have  the  negative 
side  of  the  teaching  of  Socrates  strongly  brought  out. 
Both  sides  of  the  questions  raised  are  fully  argued  by 
him,  but  no  definite  conclusion  is  arrived  at.  He 
never,  indeed,  assumes  any  attitude  of  authority.  He 
is  a  searcher  for  truth,  like  the  young  men  with  whom 
IiG  talks ;  the  only  difference  being  that  his  search  is  more 
zealous  and  systematic  than  theirs.  "We  shall  "(he 
says  in  the  Thea^tetus)  "  either  find  what  Ave  are  look- 
ing for,  or  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  we  know 
what  we  really  do  not  know.  And  we  philosophers 
iiave  plenty  of  leisure  for  our  inquiries,  for  we  are 
not  tied  down  to  time,  like  a  barrister  pleading  in  the 
law-courts,  whose  speech  is  measured  by  the  clock.'' 
Socrates  had  begun,  as  he  tells  us,  by  catechising 
artisans  and  mechanics  as  to  their  arts  and  occupa- 
tions (hence  the  constant  allusions  in  the  Dia- 
logues    to    mechanical    employments  —  shoemaking, 


DIALOG  UES  OF  SEARCB.  73 

swordmaking,  and  the  like),  and  from  them  he  had 
got  clear  and  satisfactory  answers.  But  he  found  that 
if  he  asked  a  man  wliat  was  his  real  work  or  object  in 
life,  or  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  moral  terms  so 
frequently  in  his  moulh,  he  got  only  vague  answers  or 
contradictions.  Hence  the  questions  which  he  exam- 
ines in  these  '  Dialogues  of  Search  '  relate  to  the  most 
familiar  and  obvious  terms  that  meet  us  on  the  thresh- 
old of  morality — HoUness,  Courage,  Temperance,  and 
other  cardinal  virtues — quahties  which  many  might 
possess  themselves  and  easily  recognize  in  others^  but 
which  they  could  not  explain  with  any  logical  pre- 
cision. 

It  is  true  that  custom  and  tradition  had  given  to 
these  set  phrases  of  morality  a  certain  value  and  signifi- 
cance in  the  minds  of  those  who  used  them;  but  few 
had  learned  to  define  or  analyze  their  full  meaning, 
and  Socrates  was  the  first  who  brought  them  under  a  ' 
logical  scnitiny — examining  their  various  uses,  fixing 
their  strict  sense,  and  referring  the  individuals  to  their 
proper  class,  or,  in  the  words  of  Aristotle,  rallying  the 
stragglers  to  the  main  body  of  the  regiment. 

In  his  arguments  with  the  Sophists,  as  we  have 
seen,  Socrates  shows  his  opponents  no  law.  He  proves 
himself  a  bitter  and  determined  antagonist — turning 
where  he  can  their  own  weapons  against  themselves, 
and  leaving  them  to  find  out  the  fallacies  in  his  state- 
ments; nor  will  he  listen  to  any  long  defence  from  them, 
for,  as  he  tells  Protagoras,  he  has  a  short  memory,  and 
expects  definite  categorical  answers.  But  when  talk- 
ing, as  in  these  'Dialogues  of  Search,'  with  some  young 
noble  of  the  rising  generation,  whose  character  is  hardly 
formed  and  whose  heart  is  still  fresh  and  pure,  the 
manner  of  Socrates  entirely  changes,   and  his  voice 


74  PLATO.  '-  • 

softens;  he  lays  aside  that  terrible  "irony"  of  his; 
he  adapts  his  questions  to  the  youth's  comprehen- 
sion, encourages  and  sympathizes  with  his  al-tempts 
to  answer,  and  uses  the  easiest  language  and  the 
homeliest  illustrations  to  explain  his  meaning. 

We  may  take  first  the  Dialogue  entitled  Laches,  in 
which  Courage — the  instinct  of  a  child  and  the  habit 
of  a  man — is  discussed.  The  speakers  bear  historical 
names.  There  is  Lysimachus,  the  son  of  Aristides, 
and  Melesios,  son  of  Thucydides  (not  the  historian,  but 
a  statesman  contemporary  with  Themistocles);  but  the 
genius  of  the  fathers  has  not  iu  this  case  been  inherited 
by  their  sons,  who  are  plain  respectable  citizens  of 
Athens,  and  nothing  more.  They  are  conscious,  how- 
ever, of  their  own  degeneracy,  and  complain  that  their 
education  had  been  neglected,  and  that  their  fathers 
had  been  so  much  engrossed  in  affairs  of  state  as  to 
have  neither  time  no  inclination  to  act  as  tutors  to 
their  own  children.  ^' Both  of  us,"  says  Lysimachus, 
**  often  talk  to  our  boys  about  the  many  noble  deeds 
which  our  fathers  did  in  war  and  peace— but  neither 
of  us  has  any  deeds  of  his  own  which  he  can  show. 
Now  we  are  somewhat  ashamed  of  this  contrast  being 
seen  by  them,  and  we  blame  our  fathers  for  letting  us 
be  spoiled  in  the  days  of  our  youth  when  they  were  oc- 
cupied with  the  concerns  of  others;  and  this  we  point 
out  to  the  lads,  and  tall  them  that  they  will  not  grow 
up  to  honor,  if  they  are  rebellious  and  take  no  pains 
about  themselves;  but  that  if  they  take  pains  they 
may  become  worthy  perhaps  of  the  names  they  bear." 
(The  two  youths,  as  was  often  the  case,  had  been 
named  after  their  grandfathers,  Aristides  and  Thucy- 
dides.) 


LACHES.  75 

In  their  doubt  as  to  the  best  mears  of  carying  out 
these  good  intentions,  the  two  fathers  came  to  Laches 
and  Nicias — both  distinguished  generals  and  statesmen 
—and  ask  their  advice  in  the  matter;  more  especi- 
ally as  to  whether  the  lessons  of  a  certain  swordsman. 
who  has  just  been  going  through  a  trial  of  arms,  ar^^ 
likely  to  be  of  use.  The  veterans  discuss  the  merits  of 
this  mew  style  of  fencing, — just  as  two  officers  now 
might  criticise  the  last  improved  rifle.  Nicias  is  much 
in  favor  of  the  youths  learning  it,  as  it  will  usefully 
occupy  their  spare  time,  will  be  of  real  service  in  war, 
and  will  set  them  up  and  give  them  a  military  air  and 
carriage.  But  Laches  has  no  opinion  of  this  new- 
fangled invention,  and  thinks  that  if  it  had  been 
worth  anything,  the  Spartans,  the  first  military  power 
in  Greece,  would  have  adopted  it.  He  had  indeed  him- 
self once  been  witness  of  a  ridiculous  scene  in  which 
this  very  swordsman  had  left  his  last  invention — a 
spear  with  a  billhook  at  the  end  of  it — sticking  fast 
in  the  rigging  of  the  enemy's  vessel,  and  was  laughed 
at  by  friends  and  foes.  "No,"  says  Laches,  "let  us 
jave  simplicity  in  all  things — in  war  as  well  as  music : 
but  these  young  men  must  learn  something;  so  let  us 
appeal  to  Socrates,  my  old  comrade  in  the  battle-field, 
who  has  much  experience  of  youth." 

Socrates,  thus  appealed  to,  joins  in  the  discussion. 
His  opinion  is  that  they  should  find  some  wise  teacher, 
not  so  much  with  a  vicvv  to  lessons  in  arms,  as  to  a 
general  education  of  the  mind.  For  no  trifling  ques- 
tion, he  says,  is  at  issue.  Thej''  are  risking  the  most 
precious  of  earthly  possessions— their  children,  upon 
whose  turning  out  well  or  ill  depends  the  welfare  of 
tic  house.  For  his  own  part,  hj  knows  nothing  of  the 
natter.      He  is  neither  professor  nor  inv.  ntor  himself, 


7G  PLATO. 

and  is  too  poor  to  pay  fees  to  the  Sophists.  Nicias 
aud  Laches  are  wealthier  and  wiser  men  than  he;  and 
he  will  gladly  abide  by  their  decision.  But  why  do 
the'r  opioions  diCer? 

Nicias  thinks  they  will  be  drawn  into  a  Socratic 
argument,  as  usual,  but  is  very  willing  to  go  through 
aa  examination;  and  Laches,  though  not  fond  of 
arguing  as  a  rule,  is  very  ready  to  listen  when  the 
m.in  is  in  harmony  with  his  words,  and  willing  there- 
fore to  be  taught  by  Socrates,  Avhom  be  knows  as  not 
merely  a  talker,  but  a  doer  of  brave  deeds, 

Socrates  thinks  it  will  be  better  to  consider,  not 
;  o  much  the  question  of  who  are  the  teachers,  as  what 
Uicy  profess  to  teach, — namely,  Virtue,  or  more  espe- 
cially that  part  of  it  which  most  concerns  them  at 
present — Courage.  Then,  by  a  series  of  questions, 
he  limits  the  vague  definition  first  given  by  Laches, 
and  proves  to  him  that  there  may  be  other  forms  of 
courage  as  noble  as  that  of  the  soldier  who  stands  his 
ground  in  battle — such  as  the  endurance  of  pain, 
or  poverty,  or  reproach;  and  it  generally  seems  to  be 
a  certain  wise  strength  of  mind,  the  intelligent  and 
reasonable  fortitude  of  a  man  who  foresees  coming 
evil  and  can  calculate  the  consequences  of  his  acts, 
and  is  very  different  from  the  fearless  courage  of  a 
child,  or  the  insensate  fury  of  a  Avild  beast.  But  then 
the  man  who  has  this  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  im- 
plied in  the  possession  of  real  courage,  must  have  also 
temperance  and  justice,  and  in  fact  all  the  virtues; 
and  this  would  contradict  the  starting  point  of  their 
discussion,  in  which  they  agreed  that  courage  was 
only  a  part  of  virtue, 

"No,"  Socrates  concludes,  '*  we  shall  have  to  leave 
off  where  we  began,  and  courage  must  still  be  to  us 


CHARMTDES.  77 

an  unknown  quantity.  We  must  go  to  school  again 
ourselves,  and  make  the  education  of  these  boys  our 
own  education." 

The  introduction  to  the  Celvrmides  is  another  specimen  of  that 
dramatic  description  in  which  Plato  excelled.  "  Yesterday 
evening,"  says  Socrates,  "  I  came  back  from  the  camp  at  Pot- 
idaea;  and  liaving  been  a  good  while  away,  I  thought  I  would 
go  and  look  in  at  my  old  haunts.  So  I  went  into  the  Palaestra 
of  Taureas,  and  there  I  found  a  number  of  persons,  most  of 
whom  I  knew,  though  not  all.  My  visit  was  unexpected,  and  as 
soon  as  they  saw  me  coming  in  they  hailed  me  at  once  fro:n  all 
sides;  and  Chserephon  (who  is  a  kind  of  lunatic,  you  know) 
jumi^ed  up  and  rushed  to  me,  seizing  my  hand  and  exclaiming, 
"  How  did  you  escape,  Socrates? "  (I  must  explain  that  a  bat- 
tle had  taken  place  at  Potidaea  not  long  before  we  left,  the  news 
of  which  had  onlj-  just  reached  Athens.') 

"  You  see,"  I  replied,  "  that  here  I  am." 

"The  report  was,"  said  he,  "  that  the  fighting  was  very  severe, 
and  that  several  of  our  acquaintance  had  fallen," 

"That  was  too  nearly  the  truth,"  replied  L 

"  I  suppose  you  were  there? "  said  he. 

"I  was." 

"  Then  sit  down  and  tell  us  the  whole  story." — J. 

So  Socrates  sits  down  between  Chaerephon  and 
Critia?,  and  answers  their  eager  inquiries  after  absent 
friends.  Then  there  enters  a  group  of  youths,  laugh- 
ing and  talking  noisily,  and  among  them  is  Charmides, 
a  cousin  of  Critias,  tall  and  handsome,  and  (so  say  his 
friends)  "as  fair  and  good  within  as  he  is  without." 
He  comes  and  sits  near  Socrates,  who  professes  to 
know  a  charm  that  will  cure  a  headache  of  which  he 
has  been  complaining.  This  charm  is  a  talisman  given 
to  Socrates  (as  he  tells  Charmides)  by  Zamolxis,  phy- 
sician to  the  King  of  Thrace;  but  which  he  is  only 
allowed  to  use  on  the  condition  of  his  never  attempt- 
ing to  cure  the  body  without  first  curing  the  soul,  and 
then  temperance  in  the  one  will  produce  health  in  the 


7J  PLATO. 

other.  But  the  question  is,  "What  is  Temperance?" 
It  is  not  always  what  Charmides  understands  by  it,  the 
quietness  of  a  gentleman  who  is  never  flurried  and  never 
noisy;  nor  is  it  exactly  modesty,  though  very  like  it; 
nor  is  it  (as  Critias  defines  it)  "doing  one's  own  busi- 
ness," even  though  our  work  as  men  be  nobly  and 
usefully  done.  Nor,  again,  is  it  true  that  the  golden 
characters  on  the  gates  of  Delphi,  "Know  thyself," 
simply  meant,  "Be  temperate  f  nor  is  it  a  "  science  of 
sciences,"  as  C.itias  again  explains  it — or  rather,  the 
knowledge  of  what  a  man  knows  and  do;:;s  not  know. 
All  knowledge  is  relative,  and  must  have  some  object- 
matter;  an  J  such  a  universal  knowledge  as  Critias 
v/ould  inply  by  temperance  would  in  no  way  conduce 
to  our  happiness. 

Finally,  Socrates  confesses  himself  puzzled  and 
baflled.  They  are  no  nearer  the  truth  than  at  starting; 
and  the  argument,  so  to  speak,  "turns  round  and 
laughs  in  their  faces."  He  is  sorry  that  Charmides 
has  learnt  po  little  from  him;  "and  still  more  he  con- 
cludes: 

"  am  I  grieved  about  the  charm  which  I  learned  with  so  much 
pain  and  to  so  little  profit  from  the  Thracia-n,  for  the  sake  of  a 
thing  which  is  nothing^  worth.  I  think,  indeed,  that  there  is  a 
mistake,  and  that  I  must  be  a  bad  inquirer;  for  I  am  pei*suaded 
that  wisdom  or  temperance  is  really  a  great  good;  and  happy 
are  you  if  you  possess  that  good.  And  therefore  examine  your- 
self, and  sec  whether  you  have  this  gift,  and  can  do  without  the 
charm;  for  if  3'ou  can,  I  would  rather  advise  you  to  regard  me 
simply  as  a  fool  who  is  never  able  to  reason  out  anything;  and 
to  rest  assured  that  the  more  wise  and  temperate  you  are,  the 
happier  you  will  be." 

Charmides  said :  "  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,  Socrates,  whether 
I  have  or  have  not  this  gift  of  wisdom  and  temperance ;  for  how 
can  I  know  whether  I  have  that,  the  very  nature  of  which  even 
3'ou  and  Critias,  as  you  say,  are  unable  to  discover?  (not  that  I 


CHARMIDES.  79 

believe  you.)  And  further,  I  am  sure,  Socrates,  that  I  do  need 
tlie  charm;  and,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  shall  be  willing  to  be 
charmed  by  you  daily,  until  you  say  I  have  had  enough.'" 

"  Very  good,  Charmides,"  said  Critias;  '"if  you  do  this  I  shall 
have  a  proof  of  j-our  temperance— that  is,  if  you  alloAV  j-ourself 
to  be  charmed  by  Socrates,  and  never  desert  him  at  all." 

"  You  may  depend  on  my  folio v/ing  and  not  deserting  him," 
said  Charmides.  "If  you  who  are  my  guardian  command  me, 
I  should  be  very  wrong  not  to  obej-  you." 

"  Well,  I  do  command  you,"  he  said. 

"Then  I  will  do  as  you  say,  and  begin  this  very  day."— J. 

In  the  Lysis,  the  scene  is  again  a  Palaestra,  near  a 
school  kept  by  Micon,  a  friend  of  Socrates.  It  is  a 
half-holiday  (like  a  saint's  day  in  some  of  our  public 
schools)  in  honor  of  the  god  Hermes;  and  the  boys  arc 
scaitered  round  the  courtyard,  some  -wrestling,  some 
playing  at  dice,  and  others  looking  on.  Among  these 
last  is  Lysis,  of  noble  birth  and  of  high  promise,  wiih 
his  friend  Menexenus.  Socrates  professes  himself 
charmed  at  the  attachment  of  the  two  boys,  and  c.dls 
them  very  fortunate.  All  people,  he  says,  have  their 
different  objects  of  ambition — horses,  dogs,  money, 
honor,  as  the  case  maybe;  but  for  his  own  part  he 
v/ould  rather  have  a  good  friend  than  all  these  put 
together.  It  is  what  he  has  longed  for  all  his  life,  and 
hero  is  Lysis  already  supplied.  "But,'  he  asks, 
"what  is  Friendship,  and  who  is  a  friend?" 

Is  it  sympathy — is  it,  as  the  poets  say,  that  "  the  gods 
draw  like  to  like"  by  some  mysterious  affinity  of  souls? 
In  that  case,  the  bad  man  can  be  no  one's  friend;  for  he 
is  not  always  even  like  himself — much  less  like  any 
one  else;  while  the  good  man  is  self-sufficing,  and  there- 
fore has  no  need  of  friends.  Is  not  Difference  rather 
the  principk?  Are  not  unlike  characters  attracted 
by  a  sense  of    dependence,   and    do    not    the    weak 


80  PLATO. 

thus  love  the  strong,  and  the  poor  the  rich? 
But  this  cannot  he  so  always,  for  then  by  this  very 
law  of  contraries  the  good  would  love  the  had,  and  the 
just  the  unjust.  No — there  must  he  a  stage  of  in- 
difference, between  these  two;  when  one  whose  char- 
acter is  hardly  formed — who  is  neither  good  nor  bad  — 
courts  the  society  of  the  good,  from  some  vague  desire 
of  improvement. 

But  Socrates  is  not  satisfied  yet.  He  thinks  there 
must  be  some  final  principle  or  first  cause  of  friend- 
ship which  they  have  not  discovered:  "and  here,"  he 


"I  was  going  to  invite  the  opinion  of  some  older  person,  when 
suddenly  we  were  interrupted  by  the  tutors  of  Lysis  and  Menex- 
enus,  who  came  upon  us  like  an  evil  apparition  with  their  brothers, 
and  bade  them  go  home,  as  it  was  getting  late.  At  first  we  and 
the  bystanders  drove  them  off,  but  afterwards,  as  they  would 
not  mind,  and  only  went  on  shouting  in  their  barbarous  dialect, 
and  got  angry,  and  kept  calling  the  boys  (they  appeared  to  us  to 
have  been  drinking  rather  too  much  at  the  Hermaea,  which 
made  them  difficult  to  manage),  we  fairly  gave  way,  and  broke 
up  the  company.  I  said,  however,  a  few  words  to  the  boys  at 
parting.  O  Menexenus  and  Lysis,  will  not  the  bystanders  go 
away  and  say,  '  Here  is  a  jest:  you  two  boys,  aud  I,  an  old  bo3% 
who  would  fain  be  one  of  you,  imagine  ourselves  to  be  friends, 
and  we  have  not  as  yet  been  able  to  discover  what  is  a  friend ! '  " 
—J. 

Aristotle  devotes  two  books  of  his  "Ethics"  to  this 
much-debated  question  of  Friendship — always  roman- 
tic and  interesting  from  a  Greek  point  of  view.  He 
looks  upon  it  in  a  political  light,  as  filling  up  the  void 
left  by  Justice  in  the  state;  and  he  traces  its  appear- 
ance in  different  forms  in  different  governments.  It 
is  an  extension  of  "Self-Love" — very  different  from 
Selfishness, — for  a  good  man  (he  says)  will  give  up 
honor  and  life  and  lands  for  his  friend's  sake,  and 


L7SIS.  81 

yet  reserve  to  himself  something  still  more  excellent 
— the  glory  of  a  noble  deed.*  But  Aristotle  can,  no 
more  than  Plato,  give  the  precise  grounds  for  any 
friendship,  except  that  it  should  not  b3  cased  on 
pleasure  or  utility;  and  we  are  told  of  his  sayinij; 
more  than  once  to  his  pupils,  "O  my  friends,  there  is 
no  friend!"  Perhaps,  after  all,  Montaigne  was  right 
— friendship  is  inexplicable;  and  the  only  reason  that 
can  be  given  for  liking  such  a  person  is  the  one  given 
by  him,  "  Because  it  was  he,  because  it  was  I." 

The  Meno  of  Plato,  introduced  in  \\iQ  Dialogue 
which  bears  his  name,  is  a  very  different  character 
from  the  Meno  of  history — a  traitor  who  did  his  best 
to  embarrass  the  retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand  Greeks. 
Piato  represents  him  as  a  "Thessalian  Alcibiades" — a 
rich  young  noble,  the  devoted  pupil  of  the  Sophists. 
He  meets  Socrates,  and  abruptly  asks  him  the  old 
question,  whether  Virtue  can  be  taught;  and  Socrates, 
as  usual,  professes  ignorance.  He  is  not  a  Gorgias,  that 
he  can  answer  such  a  question  offhand  "in  the  grand 
style."  He  does  not  even  know  what  Virtue  is,  much 
less  who  are  its  teachers:  and  he  adds,  with  mock 
humility,  that  there  is  a  singular  dearth  of  wisdom  at 
Athens  just  now,  for  the  rhetoricians  have  carried  it 
all  away  with  them  to  Thrace.  Perhaps  Meno  will 
kindly  enlighten  him  with  the  opinions  of  Gorgias  on 
this  difficult  question? 

Yes,  Meno  will  tell  him.  Every  age  and  condition 
of  life  has  its  special  virtue.  A  man's  virtue  is  states- 
manship, in  which  he  will  guard  his  own  and  his 
CDuntry's  interests;  while  "a  woman's  virtue  is  to 
order  her  house  and  keep  what  is  within  doors,  and 

*  Ethics,  viii.  ix. 


82  PLATO. 

obey  her  husband;" — a-stay-at-home  view  of  her  duties 
which  would  find  little  favor  with  the  modern  advo- 
cates of  female  suffrage. 

But  surely,  objects  Socrates,  justice  and  temperance 
are  needed  by  all  ages  and  professions.  Must  there 
not  be  some  one  common  element  pervading  these 
separate  virtues,  which  are  merely  individuals  of  a 
class,  like  colors  and  figures?  Virtue,  like  health, 
must  be  a  common  quality,  though  it  may  take  various 
iorms. 

Meno  then  comes  to  understand  that  a  definition  is 
Avhat  is  wanted,  and  accordingly  quotes  one  from  the 
poets.  "  Virtue  is  the  desire  of  the  honorable,  and 
the  power  of  getting  it  " 

But  Socrates  is  not  satisfied  with  this.  You  must, 
he  says,  get  what  is  honorable  with  justice  (or  it 
would  not  be  virtuous);  and  justice  is  a  p  rt  of  virtue. 

Meno  is  puzzled  by  this,  and  complains  that  Socrates 
is  a  wizard,  and  has  bewitched  him.  His  arguments 
are  like  the  shock  of  the  torpedo — they  benumb  and 
stupefy.  But  Socrates  declares  that  he  is  just  as  much 
perplexed  himself;  he  is  ready,  indeed,  to  search  for 
the  truth,  but  he  knows  no  more  what  the  truth  is 
than  Meno  does. 

"  How  then"  (says  Meno,  acutely)  "  can  you  search 
for  that  of  which  you  know  nothing;  and  how,  even 
if  you  find  it,  can  you  be  sure  that  you  have  got  it?  " 

This  difficulty  Socrates  explains  by  that  famous 
doctrine  of  Reminiscence,  which  is  so  important  a 
principle  in  the  Platonic  philosophy.  The  soul  (as 
the  poets  say)  is  immortal,  and  is  continually  dying 
and  being  born  again — passing  from  one  body  to 
aiiolher.  During  these  stages  of  existence,  in  Hades 
und  in  the  upper  world,   it  has   seen  and   learnt  all 


MENO.  8J] 

things,  but  has  forgotten  the  greater  part  of  its  knowl- 
edge. It  is  capable,  however,  of  reviving  by  asso- 
ciation all  that  it  has  learnt — for  all  nature  is  akin, 
and  all  knowledge  and  learning  is  only  reminiscence. 
Socrates  tlien  proves  his  theory  by  cross-examining  a 
boy — one  of  Meno's  slaves — who  gives  the  successive 
stages  of  a  problem  in  geometry;  and  this  implies  that 
th?  knowledge  was  already  latent  in  his  mind, 

Then  Socrates  goes  on  to  show  that  knowledge  is 
the  distinctive  element  of  virtue,  without  which  all 
good  g.fts,  such  as  health,  or  beauty,  or  strength,  are 
unprofitable  because  not  rightly  used;  and  if  virtue 
be  knowledge,  it  cannot  come  by  nature,  but  must 
be  taught. 

"But  who  are  its  teachers?  "  ho  asks,  appealing  to 
one  of  the  company,  Anytu"-,  a'tcrwards  his  own 
accuser:  for  he  has  failed,  hitherto,  to  find  them. 
*'  Shall  Meno  go  to  the  Sophists — the  professed  teachers 
of  all  Greece?" 

"Heaven  forbid!"  answers  Anytus;  "the  Sophists 
are  the  corrupters  of  our  nation.  The  real  teachers  are 
the  good  old  Athenian  gentlemen,  and  the  statesmen 
of  a  past  age. " 

But  this  Socrates  will  not  allow.  These  great 
statesmen  never  imparted  their  own  wisdom  to  their 
sons,  and  yet  they  surely  would  have  done  so  had  it 
been  possible. 

Anytus  is  indignant  that  his  heroes  should  ba  so 
lightly  spoken  of,  and  angrily  bids  Socrates  be  careful 
of  his  words,  and  remember  that  it  is  easier  to  do  men 
harm  in  Athens  than  to  do  them  good. 

Slill  the  original  question  has  not  been  answered, 
"Is  Virtue  teachable?"  and  Socrates  inclines  to  think 
U  "a  gift  from  heaven,"  and  that  it  may  be  directed 


84  PLATO. 

by  another  faculty,  practically  as  useful  as  knowltdiie, 
namely,  "right  opinion;"  and  this  is  a  sort  of  (livinj 
instinct  possessed  by  statesmen,  but  which  they  cinnot 
impart  to  others.  The  higher  form  of  virtue— the 
ideal  knowledge — is  possessed  by  none;  and  if  a  man 
cndd  be  found  both  possessing  it  and  able  to  impart 
it,  he  would  be  like  Tiresias,  as  Ulysses  saw  him  in 
Hades,  who  alone  had  understanding  in  the  midst  of 
a  world  of  shadows. 

EUTHYPHRO. 

This  Dialogue  carries  us  back  to  the  days  when  tlie 
trial  of  Socrates  was  still  impending.  One  morning 
the  philosopher  meets  the  augur  Euthyphro  at  the 
entrance  of  the  law-courts. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  asks  the  augur.  "I 
am  defendant,"  Socrates  answers,  "  in  a  suit  which  a 
young  man  named  Meletus  has  brought  against  me  on 
a  charge  of  corrupting  the  youth;— and  you?  " 

"I  am  prosecuting  my  father  for  murder,"  is  the 
startling  reply  of  Euthyphro;  and  then  he  proceeds 
to  tell  the  story.  A  man  employed  on  his  father's 
estate,  in  the  island  of  Naxos  had  killed  a  fellow- 
slave  in  a  drunken  quarrel;  and  his  father  had  bound 
the  offender  hand  and  foot,  and  thrown  Lim  into  a 
ditch,  while  he  sent  to  inquire  of  a  diviner  at  Athens 
what  he  should  do  with  him.  But  long  before  the  mes- 
senger could  return,  the  unfortunate  slave  had  died  of 
cold  and  hunger;  and  Euthyphro  had  felt  it  his  duty 
to  prosecute  his  father  for  murder.  "My  friends," 
siys  he,  "call  me  impious  and  a  madman  for  so  doing; 
but  I  know  better  than  they  do  in  what  true  filial 
piety  consists. " 


ELTUYPIIRO.  85 

"  And  what  is  Piety?  "  asks  Socrates;  *'  the  knowl- 
edge may  be  of  use  to  me  in  my  approaching 
trial?  " 

"  Doing  as  I  am  doing  now,"  replies  the  other,  in 
the  true  spirit  of  a  Pharisee— "  bringing  a  murderer  to 
justice  without  respect  of  persons,  and  following  the 
example  set  by  the  godi  themselves." 

But  (asks  Socrates  again)  what  is  the  specific 
character  of  piety? — for  there  must  be  other  pious 
acts  besides  prosecuting  one's  father,  and  the  gods  may 
disagree  as  to  questions  of  right  and  wrong.  Even 
suppose  they  all  agree  in  loving  a  certain  act,  the  fact 
of  their  loving  it  would  not  make  it  pious. 

Then  Euthyphro  defines  piety  to  be  that  branch 
of  justice  which  chiefly  concerns  the  gods;  and  that 
man,  he  says,  is  most  pious  who  knows  best  how  to 
propitiate  their  favor  by  prayer  and  sacrifice.  Thus 
piely  becomes  a  sort  of  business  transaction,  on  the 
mutual  benefit  system,  between  gods  and  men,  where 
worldly  prosperity  is  bestowed  on  one  side,  and  honor 
and  gratitude  are  rendered  on  ^he  other. 

But  Socrates  is  not  satisfied.  They  have,  he  says, 
be3a  arguing  in  a  circle,  and  have  got  back  to  the  defi- 
nition they  before  rejected — that  piety  is  "what  is 
dear  to  the  g^ds:"  for  the  honor  we  thus  pay  to 
them  by  prayer  and  sacrifice  is  most  dear  to  them.  So 
they  must  again  seek  for  the  true  answer;  and  Euthy- 
phro must  tell  him,  for  if  any  man  knows  the  nature  of 
piety,  it  i  i  evidently  he.  But  Eutiiyphro  is  in  a  hurry, 
and  cannot  stay. 

"If  Socrates  had  thought  like  Euthyphro,  he  might 
have  died  in  his  bed. "    Such  is  the  jnoral  M.  Cousin* 

*Fragm.  de  Plillos.  Anc,  117. 


8G  PLA'IO. 

draws  from  this  Dialogue;  and  undoubtedly  the  subse- 
quent impeachment  of  the  philosopher  might  be  attribu- 
ted in  part  to  the  enmity  of  the  Athenian  priesthood— 
always  jealous  and  intolerent  of  any  new  form  of  faith. 
Here  the  contrast  is  (as  Plato  probably  meant  it  to  be) 
a  striking  one  between  the  augur  Euthyphro — perfect 
in  the  letter  of  the  law,  but  whose  consistent  "piety" 
is  impelling  him  to  be  a  parricide — and  Socrates,  even 
now  about  to  be  indicted  for  worshipping  strange  gods, 
yet  proving  a  self -de  voted  martyr  who  refuses  to  save 
to  save  his  life  by  tampering  with  his  conscience,  and 
who  dies  rather  than  break  the  law  by  attempting  to 
escape,  when  escape  was  easy. 

CRATYLUS. 

This  Dialogue  turns  entirely  upon  etymology,  and 
hence  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  reproduce  it  in  a 
modern  form,  as  continual  reference  is  made  to 
Greek  nouns  and  names.  The  humor  is  so  extravagant 
and  sustained,  and  the  derivations,  which  Socrates 
gravely  propounds,  are  often  so  fanciful  and  far-fetched, 
that  Mr.  Jowett  thinks  Plato  intended  the  Cratylus  as  a 
satire  upon  the  false  and  specious  philology  of  the  day; 
but  that  the  meaning  of  his  satire  (as  is  often  the  case) 
has  "  slept  in  the  ear  of  posterity." 

Cratylus,  an  admirer  of  Heraclitus,  has  been  arguing 
about  names  with  Ilermogeues— a  youngir  brother  of 
the  rich  Callias,  whom  we  have  met  before  as  the  hos- 
pitable entertainer  of  Protagoras — and  his  brother 
Sophists.  Hermogenes  maintains  that  names  are 
merely  conventional  signs,  which  can  be  given  or 
taken  away  at  plea  ure;  and  that  any  name  whicli  you 
choose  to  give  anything  is  correct  until  you  change  it: 
while  Cratylus  holds  that  names  are  real  and  natural 


ElTTHYPimCx  87 

expressions  of  thought,  or  else  they  would  be  mere  in- 
articulate  sounds;  and  that  all  truth  comes  from  lan- 
guage. They  invite  Socrates,  who  has  Just  joined 
them,  to  give  his  opinion.  ""Alas!"  says  Socrates, 
regretfully,  "  if  I  could  only  have  afforded  to  attend 
that  fifty-drachma  course  of  lectures  given  by  the  great 
Prodicus,  who  advertised  them  as  a  complete  education 
in  grammar  and  language,  I  could  have  told  you  all 
about  it;  but  I  was  only  able  to  attend  the  single- 
drachma  course,  and  know  as  little  of  this  diflQcult 
question  as  you.  Still,  I  should  like  a  free  discussion 
on  the  subject" 

We  cannot  (he  goes  on)  accept  Hermogenes'  prin- 
ciple, that  each  man  has  a  private  right  of  nomencla- 
ture; for  if  anybody  might  name  anything,  and  give 
it  as  many  names  as  he  liked,  all  meaning  and  distinc- 
tion of  terms  would  soon  perish — there  being  as  much 
truth  and  falsehood  implied  in  words  as  in  sentences. 
No,— speaking  and  naming,  like  any  other  art,  should 
be  done  in  the  right  way,  witli  the  right  instrument, 
and  by  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  "This  giving 
of  names,"' he  continues,  "  is  no  such  light  matter  as 
you  fancy,  or  the  work  of  chance  persons;  and  Cratylus 
is  right  in  saj-ing  that  things  have  names  by  nature, 
and  that  not  every  man  is  an  artificer  of  names,  but 
he  only  who  looks  to  the  thing  which  each  name  by 
nature  has,  and  is,  will  be  able  to  express  the  ideal 
forms  of  things  in  letters  and  syllables. "  It  is  the  law 
that  gives  names  tlirough  the  legislator,  who  is  advised 
in  his  work  by  the  Dialectician,  who  alone  knows  the 
right  use  of  names,  and  who  can  ask  and  answer 
questions  properly. 

The  Sophists  profess  to  teach  you  the  correctness  of 
n;imcs;  but  if  you  think  lightly  of  them,  turn  to  the 


83  PLATO, 

poets.  In  Homer  you  will  find  that  the  same  thing  is 
called  differently  by  gods  and  men — for  instance,  the 
river  which  the  gods  call  Xanthus,  men  call  Scamander; 
and  there  is  a  solemn  and  mysterious  truth  in  this, 
for  of  course  the  gods  must  he  right.  And  so  with 
the  two  names  that  Hector's  son  went  by — Astyanax 
and  Scamandrius— which  did  Homer  think  correct? 
Clearly,  the  name  given  by  the  men,  who  are  always 
wiser  than  the  women.  This  is  another  great  truth; 
and  besides,  in  this  case,  there  is  a  curious  coinci' 
dence  ,  for  the  names  of  the  faiher  and  son — though 
having  only  one  letter  {t)  the  same — mean  the  same 
thing — Hector  being  "holder,"  and  Astyanax  *' de- 
fender," of  the  city.  The  mere  difference  of  syllables 
matters  nothing,  if  the  same  sense  is  retained.* 

All  these  old  heroic  names,  continues  Socrates,  carry 
their  history  with  them;  and,  if  you  analyze  them 
properly,  you  learn  the  character  of  the  men  or  gods 
who  bore  them.  Atreus  is  "the  stubborn"  or  "de- 
structive;" Orestes,  the  wild  "  mountain  ranger;"  Zeus 
himself,  the  lord  of  "life"— and  so  on  with  the  other 
personages  in  Hesiod's  genealogy. 

Hermogenes  is  startled  by  these  derivations,  and 
thinks  Socrates  must  be  inspired— his  language  is  so 
oracular: 

"Yes,"  say  Socrates,  "and I  caught  this  inspiration 
from  the  great  Euthyphro,  with  whom  I  have  been 
since  daybreak,  listening  while  he  declaimed;  his  divine 
wisdom  has  so  filled  my  ears  and  possessed  my  soul, 
that  to-day  I  will  give  myself  up  to  this  mysterious  iu- 
l^uence,  and  examine  fully  the  history  of  names;  to- 


*  So  says  Fluellen;  they  "are  all  one  reckonings,  save  the 
phrase  is  a  little  variations." — Henry  V.,  act  iv.  sc.  7. 


CBATTLUS.  89 

morrow  I  will  go  to  some  priest  or  sophist,  and  be 
purified  of  this  strange  bewitchment."' 

Sometimes,  he  continues,  we  must  change  and  shift 
the  letters  to  get  at  the  real  form  of  the  word:  thus 
s^a,  "bod}',"  is  the  same  as  sema,  "tomb" — mean^ 
ing  the  grave  in  which  our  f  oul  is  buried,  or  perhaps 
kept  safe,  as  in  a  prison,  till  the  last  penalty  is  paid. 
So  also  Pluto  is  the  same  as  Plutus,  and  means  the 
giver  of  riches,  for  all  wealth  comes  from  the  world 
below,  where  he  is  king.  It  is  true  that  we  use  his 
name  as  a  euphemism  for  Hades,  but  we  do  ?o  wrongly, 
for  there  is  really  nothing  terrible  connected  with  that 
word.  It  does  not  mean  the  awful  "unseen"  world, 
as  people  think ;  but  Pluto  is  called  Hades  because  he 
knows  {eidenai)  all  goodness  and  beauty,  and  thus 
binds  all  who  come  to  him  by  the  strongest  chains 
— stronger  than  those  of  Father  Time  himself.  And 
so  these  other  awful  names,  such  as  Persephatta  and 
Apollo,  have  really  nothing  terrible  about  them,  if  you 
examine  their  derivation.  But  Socrates  will  have  no 
more  discussion  about  the  gods  —  he  is  "afraid  of 
them." 

"  Only  one  more  god,"  pleads  Hermogenes.  "  I  should  like 
to  know  about  Hermes,  of  whom  I  am  said  not  to  be  a  true  son. 
Let  us  make  him  out,  and  then  I  shall  know  if  there  is  anything 
in  what  Cratylus  says." 

"I  should  imagine,"  says  Socrates,  "that  the  name  Hermes 
has  to  do  with  speech,  and  signifies  that  he  is  the  interpreter,  or 
messenger,  or  thief,  or  liar,  or  bargainer;— language  has  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
the  word  eirein  is  expressive  of  tlie  use  of  speech,  and  we  have 
improved  ciremes  into  Hennes." 

"  Then  I  am  very  sure,"  saj's  Hermogenes,  in  a  tone  of  convic- 
tian,  "that  Cratylus  was  quite  right  in  saying  that  I  was  no  trua 
son  of  Hermes,  for  I  am  not  a  good  hand  at  speeches.  "—J. 


90  ILAiO. 

Then  Socrates  examines  the  names  of  the  various 
elements,  virtues,  and  moral  qaalilies,  most  of  which 
he  derives  in  a  manner  that  would  shock  a  modern 
philologist.      Some  of    them,    he  says  truly,   have  a 
foreign  origin,  inasmuch  as  the  Greek  borrowed  maoy 
words  from  the  Barbarians;  "for  the  Barbarians  arc 
older  than  we  are,  and  the  orignal  form  of  words  may 
have  been  lost  in  the  lapse  of    aiies  "      The  word 
dikaion — "justice" — says  Socrates,  ha?  greatly  puzzled 
him.     Some  one  had  told  him,   as  a  great  mysterj-, 
that  the  word  was  the  same  as  diaioii — the  subtle  and 
penetrating  power  that  enters  into  everything  in  crea- 
tion; and  when  he  inquired  further,  he  was  told  that 
Justi:  e  was  the  Sun, — the  piercing  or  burning  element 
in  nature.     But  when  he  quotes  this  beautiful  notion 
with  great  glee  to  a  friend,  he  is  met  by  the  satirical 
answer — "  What!  is  there  then  no  justice  in  the  world 
when  the  sun  goes  down  ?  "  And  when  Socrates  begs  his 
friend  to  tell  him  his  own  honest  opinion,  he  says,  "Fire 
in  the  abstract;"  which  is  not  very  intelligible.  Another 
says,  "No, — not  fire  in  the  abstract,  but  the  abstrac- 
tion of  heat  in  fiie."    A  third  professes  to  laugh  at 
this,  and  says,  with  Anaxagoras,  that  Justice  is  Mind; 
for  Mind,   they  say,  has  absolute  power,   and  mixes 
with  nothing,  and  governs  all  things,  and  permeates 
all  things.      At  last,   he  says,  he  found  himself  in 
greater  perplexity  as  to  the  nature  of  Justice  than 
when  he  began  his  inquiry. 

Then  follow  other  derivations,  more  extravagant 
than  any  which  we  have  noticed;  but  Socrates  con- 
cludes with  a  long  passage  of  serious  etymology.  AYo 
should  get  at  primary  names  (he  says),  and  separate  th  > 
letters,  which  have  all  a  distinct  meaning — thus  I  cy- 
presses  "smoothness,"  r  "motion,"  a  "size,"  and  c 


"length."  When  we  have  fixed  their  meaning,  we 
can  form  them  into  syllables  and  words;  and  add  and 
subtract  until  we  get  a  good  and  true  image  of  the  idea 
we  intend  to  express.  Of  course  there  are  degrees  of 
accuracy  in  this  process,  where  nature  is  helped  out  by 
custom;  and  a  name,  like  a  picture,  may  be  a  more  or 
less  perfect  likeness  of  a  person  or  thought.  Great 
truths  may  be  learned  through  names;  but  there  are 
higher  forms  of  knowledge,  which  can  only  be  learnt 
lr.»m  the  ideas  themselves,  of  which  our  words  are  but 
faint  impressions;  and  "  no  man  of  sense  will  put  him- 
■elf  or  his  education  in  the  power  of  names,"  or  believe 
iluit  the  world  is  in  a  perpetual  flux  and  transition, 
"  like  a  leaky  vessel."  And  with  this  parting  blow  at 
Heraclitus,  the  Dialogue,  with  its  mixture  of  truth  and 
IJLition,  of  jest  and  earnest,  comes  to  an  end.  But,  wild 
ai.d  fanciful  as  many  of  the  derivations  undoubtedly 
arc,  it  must  still  be  admitted  that  "  the  guesses  of  Plato 
are  better  than  all  the  other  theories  of  the  ancients 
respecting  language  put  together."* 

THE^TETUS. 

Euclid  (not  the  mathematician,  but  the  philosopher 
of  that  name)  meets  his  friend  Terpsion  at  the  door  of 
his  own  house  in  Megara;  and  their  conversation  hap- 
pens to  turn  upon  Theaetetus,  whom  Euclid  has  just 
seen  carried  up  toward  Athens,  almost  dead  of  dysen- 
tery, and  of  the  wounds  he  had  received  in  the  battle 
of  Corinth.  "  What  a  gallant  fellow  he  was,  and  what 
a  loss  he  will  be!"  says  Terpsion;  and  then  Euclid 
remembers  how  Socrates  had  prophesied  great  things 
of  him  in  his  youth,  and  had  proved — as  he  always 


*  Jowett's  Plato,  i.  620. 


92  PLATO. 

did— a  true  prophet;  for  Theaetetus  had  more  than  ful- 
filled the  promise  of  his  early  years.  Euclid  had  taken 
careful  notes  of  a  discussion  between  Socrates  and  the 
young  Theaetetus  in  days  gone  by,  and  this  paper  is  now 
read  by  a  servant  for  the  benefit  of  Terpsion. 

As  Socrates  said,  Thcastetus  was  "a  reflection  of  his 
own  ugly  self,"  both  in  person  and  character.  Snub- 
nosed,  and  with  projecting  eyes,  brave  and  patient, 
slow  and  sure  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  "full  of 
gentleness,  and  always  making  progress,  like  a  noiseless 
river  of  oil."  His  answers  in  the  Dialogue  bear  out 
this  character:  they  are  invariably  shrewd  and  to  the 
point,  and  would  have  done  credit  (says  his  examiner) 
to  "many  bearded  men.'  Socrates  is  still  the  same 
earnest  disputant,  professing  to  know  nothing  himself, 
but  willing  to  assist  others  in  bringing  their  thoughts 
to  the  birth;  for  so  far,  he  tells  Theaetetus,  he  has  in- 
herited the  art  of  his  mother  Phsenarete,  the  midwife. 
Hence  those  youths  resort  to  him  who  are  tortured  by 
the  pangs  of  perplexity  and  doubt,  and  yearn  to  be 
delivered  of  the  conceptions  which  are  struggling  for 
release  within  their  breasts.  If  these  children  of  their 
f-ouls  are  likely  to  prove  a  true  and  noble  offspring, 
they  are  suffered  to  see  the  light;  but  if,  as  is  often 
the  case,  his  divine  inward  monitor  warns  Socrates 
that  they  are  but  lies  or  shadows  of  the  truth,  they  are 
stifled  in  the  birth. 

The  question  discussed  is  Knowledge;  and  the  first 
definition  of  it  proposed  is  *'  sensible  perception."  This 
Socrates  connects  with  the  old  saying  of  Protagoras, 
'•  Man  is  the  measure  of  all  things;"  and  this  he  again 
links  on  to  the  still  older  doctrine  of  Heraclitus,  "All 
things  are  becoming."  "These  ancient  philosophers" 
(he    say?) — "  the  great  Parmenides  excepted— agreed 


THE^TETUS.  93 

that  since  we  live  in  the  midst  of  perpetual  change  and 
transition,  our  knowledge  of  all  things  must  be  rela- 
tive. There  is  no  such  thing,  they  will  tell  you,  as 
real  existence.  You  should  not  say,  '  this  is  white  or 
black,'  but  'it  is  my  (or  your)  impression  that  it  is  so.' 
And  thus  each  man  can  only  know  what  he  perceives; 
and  so  far  his  judg:nent  is  true." 

"Of  course"  (continues  Socrates),  "we  might 
object  that  our  senses  may  deceive  us;  that  in  cases 
where  a  man  is  mad  or  dreaming — who  knows,  indeed, 
whether  we  are  not  dreaming  at  this  very  moment? — 
he  must  get  false  impressions :  or,  again,  that  our  tastes 
may  become  perverted ;  and  as  wine  is  distasteful  to  a 
sick  man,  so  what  is  really  good  or  true  does  not 
appear  so  to  us.  But  Protagoras  would  reply  that  the 
sick  man's  dreams  are  real  to  him, — that  my  impres- 
sions of  wine  are  certainly  dijfferent  in  health  and  sick- 
ness; but  then  /  am  different,  and  my  impressions  in 
either  case  are  true." 

"  I  wonder  (says  Socrates  ironically)  that  Protagoras  did  not 
begin  his  great  work  on  Truth  with  a  declaration  that  a  pig  or  a 
dog-faced  baboon,  or  some  other  strange  monster  which  has 
sensation,  is  the  measure  of  all  things;  then,  when  we  were 
reverencing  him  as  a  god,  he  might  have  condescended  to  in- 
form us  that  he  was  no  wiser  than  a  tadpole,  and  did  not  even 
aspire  to  be  a  man— would  not  this  have  produced  an  overpower- 
ing effect?  For  if  truth  is  only  sensation,  and  one  man's  dis- 
cernment is  as  good  as  another's,  and  no  man  has  any  superior 
right  to  determine  whether  the  opinion  of  any  other  is  true  or  false 
but  each  man,  as  we  have  several  times  repeated,  is  to  himself  the 
sole  judge,  and  everything  that  he  judges  is  true  and  right,  why 
should  Protagoras  be  preferred  to  the  place  of  wisdom  and  in- 
struction, and  deserve  to  be  well  paid,  and  we  poor  ignoramuses 
have  to  go  to  him,  if  each  one  is  the  measure  of  his  own  wis- 
dom? "—J. 

Then  Socrates  takes  upon  himself  to  defend  Prot- 
agoras, who  is  made  to  qualify  his  original  statement: 


94  PLATO. 

"  Man  is  the  measure  of  all  ihiugs,  but  one  man's 
knowledge  may  be  superior  in  proportion  as  his  im- 
pressions are  better;  still,  every  impression  is  true  and 
real,  and  a  false  opinion  is  impossible." 

Common-sense,  replies  Socrates,  is  against  this 
theory,  which  would  reduce  eiU  minds  to  the  same 
icivel.  Practically,  men  are  always  passing  judgment 
on  the  impressions  of  others,  pronouncing  them  to  be 
true  or  false,  and  acting  accordingly;  they  recognize 
superior  minds,  and  submit  to  teachers  and  rulers: 
thus  Protagoras  himself  made  a  large  fortune  on  the 
reputation  of  having  better  judgment  than  his  neigh- 
bors. And  if  one  man's  judgment  is  as  good  as 
another's,  who  is  to  decide?  Is  the  question  to  be 
settled  by  a  plurality  of  votes,  or  what  shall  be  the 
last  court  of  appeal?  Protagoras  may  think  this  or 
that,  but  there  are  probably  ten  thousand  who  will 
think  the  opposite;  and,  by  his  own  rule,  //i^i-r  judg- 
ments are  as  good  as  his. 

But  even  Socrates  feels  some  compunction  in  thus 
jittacting  the  theories  of  a  dead  philosopher  who  cannot 
defend  himself. 

"  If  he  could  only  '^  (he  says)  "get  his  head  out  of  the  world 
below,  he  would  give  both  of  us  a  sound  drubbing— me  for 
quibbling,  and  you  for  accepting  my  quibbles— and  be  off  and 
underground  again  in  a  twinkling,"— J. 

Then  comes  a  break  in  the  main  argument,  and 
Socrates  wanders  off  into  a  digression,  in  which  he 
draws  a  striking  contrast  between  the  characters  of  the 
lawyer  and  philosopher — the  former  always  in  a  hurry, 
with  the  water-clock  urging  him  on — busy  and  preoc- 
cupiL'd,  the  slave  of  his  clients, — keen  and  shrewd,  but 
Durrow-minded,  and  from  his  early  years  vei -^ed  in  the 
crooked  paths  of  deceit:   while  the  philosopher  is  a 


TIIE.ETETUS.  95 

geotleinan  at  large,  master  of  his  owq  time,  abstracted 
!U)d  absorbed  in  thouglit,  seeing  nothing  at  his  leet,  and 
knowing  nothing  of  the  scandals  of  the  clubs  or  the 
gossip  of  the  town — hardly  even  acquainted  with  his 
next-door  neighbor  by  sight — shy,  awkward,  and  too 
simple-minded  to  retaliate  an  insult,  or  understand  the 
merits  of  a  long  pedigree.* 

"Knowledge  then,"  continues  Socrates,  resuming 
the  argument,  "cannot  be  perception;  for,  after  all, 
it  is  the  soul  which  perceives,  and  the  senses  are  merely 
organs  of  the  body  springing  from  a  common  centre  of 
life.  In  fact,  we  see  and  hear  rather  throughtham  than 
m/7t  them.  Furthermore,  there  are  certain  abstractions 
which  we  (that  is,  the  trained  and  intelligent  few)  per- 
ceive with  the  eye  of  reason  alone." 

Then  Theaitetus  suggests  that  knowledge  may  be  de- 
fined as  ' '  true  opinion ;"  but  then,  says  Socrates,  the 
old  objection  would  be  raised,  that  false  opinion  is  im- 
possible; for  we  must  either  know  or  not  know,  and  in 
either  case  we  know  what  we  know.  The  reply  is,  that 
mistakes  are  alwa3sp:)ssible;  you  may  think  one  thing 
to  be  another.  Our  souls,  continues  Socrates,  using  a 
metaphor  which  has  since  passed  into  a  commonplace, 
are  like  waxen  tablets — some  broad  and  deep,  where 
the  impressions  made  by  sight  or  hearing  are  clear  and 
indelible;  others  cramped  and  narrow,  where  the  im- 
pressions from  the  senses  are  confused  and  crowded 
together;    and   sometimes  the  wax  itself  is  soft,   or 

*  The  Philosopher  here  argues  that  a  long  line  of  ancestors 
does  not  necessarily  make  a  genleman  ;  for  any  one,  if  he 
chooses,  may  reckon  back  to  the  first  Parent,— just  as  Tennyson 
reminds  Lady  Clara  that : 

"  The  grand  old  Gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent." 


96  PLATO. 

shallow,  or  impure,  and  so  the  impression  is  soon 
effaced.  Often,  too,  we  put,  so  to  speak,  the  shoe  on 
the  wrong  foot,  or  stamp  with  the  wrong  seal;  and 
from  these  wrong  and  hasty  impressions  come  false 
opinions.  There  can  be  no  mistake  when  perception 
and  knowledge  correspond;  but  we  often  have  one 
without  the  other.  I  may  see  an  inscription,  but  not 
know  its  meaning;  or  I  may  hear  a  foreigner  talk,  but 
not  understand  a  word  he  siiys. 

But  stay,  says  Socrates — we  have  been  rashly  using 
these  words  "know  "  and  '  understand,"  while  all  the 
time  we  are  ignorant  of  what  "knowledge"  is.  We 
must  try  again  to  define  the  term ;  and  first,  to  havs 
is  quite  different  from  to  possess  knowledge.  Our  soul 
is  like  an  aviary  full  of  wild  birds,  flying  all  about  the 
place,  singly  or  in  groups.  You  may  possess  them, 
but  you  have  none  in  hand;  and  until  you  collect, 
comprehend,  and  grasp  your  winged  thoughts,  you 
cannot  be  said  to  have  them  either.  When  you  have 
once  caught  your  bird  (or  your  thought),  you  cannot 
mistake  it;  but  while  they  are  flying  about,  you  may 
mistake  the  ring-dove  lor  the  pigeon,  and  so  you  may 
mistake  the  various  numbers  and  forms  of  knowledge. 

'*  Perhaps,"  says  Thesetetus,  sharply,  "there  may  be 
sham  birds  in  the  aviary;  and  you  may  put  forth  your 
hand  intending  to  grasp  Knowledge,  but  catch  Ignor- 
ance instead.     How  then  ?  " 

"No,"  says  Socrates;  "it  is  a  clever  suggestion, 
but  if  you  once  know  the  form  of  knowledge,  you  will 
never  mistake  it  for  ignorance.  Perhaps,  however, 
there  may  be  higher  forms  of  knowledge  in  other 
aviaries,  which  help  you  to  tell  the  wrong  from  the 
right  thought;  but  on  this  supposition  we  might  go 
on  imagining  forms  to  infinity." 


THE^TETUS.  97 

A  third  and  last  definition  of  knowledge  is  now  pro- 
posed— "True  opinion  plus  definition  or  explanation." 
But  what  is  explanation? — is  it  the  expression  of  a 
man's  thoughts?  But  every  one  who  is  not  deaf  and 
dumb  can  express  his  thoughts.  Or  is  it  the  enumera- 
tion of  the  elements  of  which  anything  is  composed? 
But  you  may  know  the  syllables  of  a  name  without 
being  able  to  explain  the  letters.  Or,  lastly,  is  expla- 
nation "  the  perception  of  difference?"  For  instance, 
(says  Socrates,  somewhat  rudely),  I  know  and  recog- 
nize Thesetelus  by  his  having  a  peculiar  snub  nose, 
different  from  mine  and  all  other  snub  noses  in  the 
world.  But  is  my  perception  of  this  difference 
opinion  or  knowledge?  If  the  first,  I  have  only 
opinion;  if  the  second,  I  am  assuming  the  very  term 
which  we  are  trying  to  define. 

And  thus,  in  ih?  true  "  Socratic  manner,"  abrupt 
and  unsatisfactory  as  it  seems  to  us,  the  Dialogue  ends; 
and  "knowledge  "  remains  the  same  unknown  quantity 
as  before.  And  yet  (Socrates  thinks)  the  discussion 
has  not  been  altogether  fruitless;  for  he  has  shown 
Theaetetus  that  the  offspring  of  his  brain  were  not 
worth  the  bringing  up. 

*'  If,"  concludes  the  philosopher,  "  you  are  likely  to  have  any 
more  embryo  thoughts,  such  offspring  will  be  all  the  better  for 
our  present  investigation;  and  if  you  should  prove  barren,  you 
vill  be  less  overbearing  and  gentler  to  your  friends,  and  modest 
enough  not  to  fancy  you  know  what  you  do  not  know.  So  far 
only  can  my  art  go,  and  no  further ;  for  I  know  none  of  the  se- 
crets of  your  famous  teachers,  past  or  present."— J. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Plato's  ideal  states. 

"II  faut  bien  reflechir  sur  la  Politique  d'Aristote  et  sur  les  deux 
Republiques  de  Platon,  si  Ton  veut  avoir  une  juste  idee  des  lois 
et  des  moeurs  des  anciens  Qrecs.''''— Montesquieu. 

THE  REPUBLIC. 

In  thi?,  the  grandest  and  most  complete  of  all  his 
works,  Plato  blends  all  the  stores  of  past  thought  on 
religion,  politics,  and  art,  into  one  great  constructive 
effort;  systematizing,  and,  as  far  as  might  be,  reconcil- 
ing the  confiictiDg  theories  and  the  various  systems 
which  had  preceded  him.  Thus  he  first  passes  in 
review  the  prudential  morality  of  an  earlier  age,  built 
on  texts  from  the  poets  and  on  aphorisms  which  had 
come  down  from  the  seven  sages;  he  then  puts  to  the 
proof  the  rash  self-assertion  of  the  Sophists,  and  the 
ingenious  skepticism  of  the  rising  generation.  But  both 
these  stages  of  thought,  when  tried,  are  found  wanting, 
and  the  object  of  his  search  seems  as  far  off  as  ever; 
for  perfect  justice  and  wisdom  (so  Plato  thinks)  can- 
not be  found  in  any  kingdom  of  this  world.  The 
result  is  that  he  frames  a  State  of  his  own,  ideal  in  one 
sense,  but  purely  Greek  in  another,  which  was  to  com- 
bine the  iron  discipline  of  Sparta  with  the  many-sided 
culture  of  Athens — a  city  where,  as  her  own  historian 


THE  liEFUBLlC.  TO 

saiil,  men  might  unite  elegance  with  simplicity,  and 
might  be  learned  without  being  effeminate.*  And 
then  like  some  painter  who  copies  a  divine  original, 
to  use  his  own  comparison,!  Plato  first  cleanses  the 
moral  canvas  of  his  visionary  state,  then  sl^etches  the 
outline  of  the  constitution,  fills  it  in  with  the  ideal 
forms  of  virtue,  and  gives  it  a  human  complexion  in 
the  god-like  coloring  of  Homer;  and  the  result  is  a 
glorious  picture,  as  the  world  would  acknowledge,  he 
thinks,  if  they  could  be  brought  to  s  e  the  truth;  and 
a  picture  which  might  be  realized  in  history,  could  a 
single  king,  or  son  of  a  king,  become  a  philosopher. 

Ethics  and  politics  were  so  closely  blended  in 
Plato's  view,  that  he  regards  the  virtues  of  the  Man 
as  identical  with  those  of  the  State,  and  thus  exagger- 
ates, says  Mr.  Grote,  "the  uniiy  of  the  one  and  thj 
partibility  of  the  other."  But  we  must  remember  that 
as  the  ancient  stale  was  smaller,  so  the  public  spirit 
pervading  it  was  more  intense;  each  man  was,  as  we 
might  say,  citizen,  soldier,  and  member  of  Parliament; 
and  unlike  modern  society,  which  has  been  defined  as 
"anarchy  plus  the  policeman," — where  tolerance  is  car- 
ried to  its  furthest  limits,  and  where  state  interference 
is  restricted  to  the  security  of  life  and  property, — 
the- Greek  theory  was  to  secure  as  far  as  possible  an 
absolute  uniformity  of  sentiment  and  character,  and 
to  crusli  anything  like  heresy  or  dissent  among  the 
members  of  the  social  body.  The  siate,  if  it  existed 
at  all,  must  be  at  one  with  itself;  and  they  would 
point  to  Sparta  as  a  triumphant  proof  that  a  rational 
character  might  ba  created  by  the  all  powerful  hand  of 
a  legislator  like    Lycurgus.      Pericles  indeed  might 

♦  Thucyd.  ii.  40.  t  Rep.,  vi.  501- 


100  PLATO. 

boast  that  at  Athens  there  were  no  sour  looks  at  n 
neighbor's  eccentricities,  and  that  it  was  emphatically 

"  A  land,  where,  girt  by  friends  and  foes, 
A  man  might  say  the  thing  he  would:  " 

but,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  case  of  Socrates,  Athenian 
tolerance  might  be  tried  too  far,  and  theories  which 
tended  in  their  view  to  outrage  religion  and  morality, 
could  not  be  endured  with  the  same  equanimity  as  in 
our  skeptical  and  so-called  enlightened  age. 

The  opening  scene  in  the  "  Republic  "  is  such  an  ex- 
cellent specimen  of  Plato's  powers  of  description,  that 
it  is  well  worth  giving  in  full.     It  is  Socrates  who 


1  went  down  yesterday  to  the  Piraeus  with  Glaucon  the  son  of 
Ariston,  to  offer  up  prayers  to  the  goddess,  and  also  from  a  wish 
to  see  how  the  festival,  then  to  be  held  for  the  first  time,  would 
be  celebrated.  I  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  native  Athe- 
nian procession,  though  that  of  the  Thracians  appeared  to  be  no 
less  brilliant.  We  had  finished  our  prayers,  and  satisfied  our 
curiosity,  and  were  returning  to  the  city,  when  Polemarchus,  the 
son  of  Cephalus,  caught  sight  of  us  at  a  distance  as  we  were  on 
our  way  towards  home,  and  told  his  servant  to  run  and  bid  us 
wait  for  him.  The  servant  came  behind  me,  took  hold  of  my 
cloak,  and  said,  "  Polemarchus  bids  you  wait."  I  turned  round, 
and  asked  him  where  his  master  was.  "  There  he  is,"  he  replied, 
"coming  on  behind:  pray  wait  for  him."  "We  will  wait," 
answered  Glaucon.  Soon  afterwards  Polemarchus  came  up, 
with  Adeimantus  the  brother  of  Glaucon,  and  Niceratus  the  son 
of  Nicias,  and  a  few  other  persons,  apparently  coming  away 
from  the  procession.  Polemarchus  instantly  began:  "Socrates, 
if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  are  taking  your  departure  for  the 
city." 

"  You  are  not  wrong  in  your  conjecture,"  I  replied 

•'  Well,  do  you  see  what  a  large  body  we  are?  " 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"  Then  either  prove  yourselves  the  stronger  party,  or  else  stay 
where  you  are." 


THE  REPUBLIC.  101 

"No,"  I  replied;  "there  is  still  an  alternative:  suppos3  wo 
persuade  you  that  you  ought  to  let  us  go." 

"  Could  you  possibly  persuade  us,  if  we  refused  to  listen?  " 

"Certainly  not," replied  Glaucon. 

"  Make  up  your  minds,  then,  that  we  shall  refuse  to  listen." 

Here  Adeimantus  interposed,  and  said:  "  Are  you  not  aware 
that  towards  evening  there  will  be  a  torch-race  on  horseback  in 
honor  of  the  goddess? " 

"  On  horseback ! "  I  exclaimed ;  "  that  is  a  novelty.  Will  they 
carry  torches,  and  pass  them  on  to  one  another,  while  the  horses 
are  racing?  or  how  do  you  mean? " 

"  As  you  say,"  replied  Polemarchtxs;  "  besides,  there  will  be  a 
night  festival,  which  it  will  be  worth  while  to  look  at.  We  will 
rise  after  dinner,  and  go  out  to  see  this  festival;  and  there  we 
shall  meet  with  many  of  our  young  men,  with  whom  we  can 
converse.    Therefore,  stay,  and  do  not  refuse  us."— D. 

And  so  they  are  persuaded  to  return  with  Polemar- 
chus  to  his  home,  wliere  they  fiud  his  father,  the  aged 
Cephalus,  surrounded  by  his  sons  and  friends. 

"  You  should  come  to  see  me  oftener,"  says  Cephalus 
to  Socrates,  "  now  that  I  cannot  come  to  you.  I  find 
that  the  older  one  grows,  the  fonder  one  becomes  of 
conversation , " 

"And  what  think  you  of  old  age  itself?"  asks 
Socrates.    "  Is  the  road  to  the  grave  rough  or  smooth?" 

"Smooth  and  peaceful  enough,"  answers  Cephalus 
— "that  is,  to  one  of  easy  temper  like  myself;  though 
some  old  men,  I  know,  complain  bitterly  of  the  mis- 
eries of  age,  and  mourn  over  the  faded  pleasures  of 
their  youth." 

"Yes,"  says  Socrates;  "but  the  world  would  say 
that  your  riches  make  old  age  an  easy  burden." 

"There  is  something  in  that;  but  I  should  say 
myself  that  a  good  man  could  not  be  happy  in  poverty 
and  old  age,  nor  again  would  all  the  wealth  of  Croesus 
make  a  bad  man  happy." 


102  PLATO. 

"  What  do  you  think,  then,  to  be  the  chief  advan- 
tage of  riches?  "  asks  Socrates. 

"  If  I  mention  it,"  he  replied,  "  I  shall  perhaps  get  few  persons 
to  agree  with  me.  Be  assured,  Socrates,  that  when  a  man  is 
nearly  persuaded  that  he  is  going  to  die,  he  feels  alarmed 
and  concerned  about  things  which  never  affected  him  before. 
Till  then,  he  has  laughed  at  those  stories  about  the  departed, 
which  tell  us  that  he  who  has  done  wrong  here  must  suffer  for 
it  in  the  other  world ;  but  now  his  mind  is  tormented  with  a  fer.r 
that  these  stories  may  possibly  be  true.  And  either  owing  to 
the  infirmities  of  old  age,  or  because  he  is  now  nearer  to  the  con- 
fines of  the  future  state,  he  has  a  clearer  insight  into  those  mys- 
teries. However  that  may  be,  he  becomes  full  of  misgiving  and 
apprehension,  and  sets  himself  to  the  task  of  calculating  and 
reflecting  whether  he  has  done  any  wrong  to  any  one.  Here- 
upon, if  he  finds  his  life  full  of  unjust  deeds,  he  is  apt  to  start  out 
of  sleep  in  terror,  as  children  do,  and  he  lives  haunted  by  gloomj' 
anticipations.  But  if  his  conscience  reproaches  him  with  no 
injustice,  he  enjoyes  the  abiding  presence  of  sweet  Hope,  that 
'  kind  nurse  of  old  age,'  as  Pindar  calls  it.  .  .  .  And  it  is  this 
consideration,  as  I  hold,  that  makes  riches  chiefly  valuable,  I  do 
not  say  to  everybody,  but  at  any  rate  to  the  good.  For  they 
contribute  greatly  to  our  preservation  from  even  unintentional 
deceit  or  falsehood,  and  from  that  alarm  which  would  attend 
our  departure  to  the  other  world,  if  we  owed  any  sacrifices  to  a 
[:od,  or  any  money  to  a  man.  They  have  also  many  other  uses. 
But  after  weighing  them  all  separately,  Socrates,  I  s^m  inclined 
to  consider  this  service  as  anything  but  the  least  important 
which  riches  can  render  to  a  wise  and  sensible  man."— D. 

"So,  then,  this  is  the  meaning  of  Justice,"  saj's 
Socrates,  seizing  on  the  word  Injustice — "  to  tell  the 
truth  and  pay  your  debts?  " 

"Certainly,  if  we  are  to  believe  the  poet  Simon- 
ides,"  says  Polemarchus  (for  Cephalus  gives  up  the 
discussion,  aud  quits  the  company);  "  his  words  are — 
to  pay  back  what  you  owe  to  each  is  just." 

"  But  you  surely  would  never  give  back  to  a  mad 
friend  a  sword  which  he  had  lent  you?  " 


THE  ItEPVBJJC.  103 

"No,"  saysPolemarchus;  '*  for  Simonides  says  again, 
you  should  give  back  what  is  pro^xr  to  each  man — 
that  is,  good  to  your  friends  and  evil  to  your  foes: 
and  if  you  ask  how,  by  making  alliance  with  one  and 
going  to  war  with  the  other:  and  in  peace,  Justice  is  of 
use  in  ordinary  dealings  between  man  and  man — espe- 
cially when  you  wish  your  money  to  be  safely  kept." 
"That  is,"  says  Socrates,  "when  your  money  is  idle 
and  useless — then  only  Justice  U  useful!  A^ain,  since 
the  doctor  can  poison  as  well  as  heal,  and  the  general 
can  overreach  the  enemy  as  well  as  protect  himself, 
Justice,  if  it  can  guard,  must  altO  steal;  and  the  ju:t 
man  is  a  sort  of  thief,  like  Homers  Autolycu  . — 

"  Who  best  could  steal,  and  swear  he  never  stole."* 
Your  poets  have  brought  Justice  to  a  pretty  pass! 
And  may  not  men  make  mistakes,  and  injure  their  real 
friends?" 

"  Yes,"  says  Polemarchus;  "  but  by  a  friend  I  mean 
one  w^ho  both  seems  and  really  is  one;  and  it  is  just 
to  injure  one's  enemy  if  he  is  bad,  and  to  help  one's 
friend  if  he  is  good. '' 

"  But  hurting  a  man  is  the  same  as  making  him 
worse  with  respect  to  virtue,  and  such  mor.il  injur}'^ 
belongs  not  to  good,  but  to  its  contrary,  evil;  just  as 
it  is  not  heat  that  chill>,  but  its  contrary,  cold.  So  it 
can  never  be  just  to  injure  either  friend  or  foe;  and  this 
definition  must  have  been  invented  not  by  Simonides 
but  by  Pcriander,  or  some  other  potentate,  who  thought 
his  power  irresistible." 

Then  Thrasymachus,  who  had  been  growing  more 
and  more  impatient,  takes,  advantage  of  a  pause,  and, 
*Mike  a  wild  beast  gathering  it  elf  up  for  a  spring," 
bursts  in  upon  the  argument. 

*  lioai.  Odyss.,  xix.  39d. 


104  PL  a:  (J. 

"■  No  more  of  this  foolisli  compl.  isance,  Socrates; 
answer  yourself,  instead  of  asking  wiiat  justice  is;  and 
don't  tell  me  that  it  is  'the  due,'  or  'the  profitable,' 
or  'the  expedient,' or  'the  lucrative,'  or  any  nonsense 
of  that  sort.  And  let  us  have  none  of  your  usual 
affectation  of  ignorance,  if  you  please." 

Socrates,  who  at  first  assumes  to  have  been  terror- 
struck  at  this  sudden  attack,  tries  to  soothe  Thrasy- 
machus,  "  A  clever  man  like  you,"  he  eays,  "should 
pity  us  in  our  perplexity,  instead  of  treating  us  harshly; 
we  are  searching  for  what  is  more  precious  than  any 
gold,  and  want  all  the  assistance  we  can  get." 

Thrasymachus  is  somewhat  pacified  by  this  flattery, 
and  gives  his  own  theory,  which  is  substantially  the 
same  as  that  we  have  already  seen  advocated  by  Cal- 
licles  in  the  "Gorgias," — that  Justice  is  "the  Interest 
of  the  Stronger."  Rulers  always  legislate  with  a  view 
to  their  own  interests;  and  as  a  shepherd  fattens  his 
sheep  for  his  own  advantage,  so  do  the  "  shepherds  of 
the  people  "  regard  their  subjects  as  mere  sheep,  and 
look  only  to  the  possible  profit  they  m-iy  get  from  them. 
Justice  is  thus  the  gain  of  the  strong  and  the  loss  of 
the  weak;  for  the  just  man's  honesty  is  ruinous  to 
himself,  while  the  unjust  man,  especially  if  he  can 
plunder  wholesale  like  the  tyrant,  is  happy  and  pros- 
perous, and  well  spoken  of;  and  thus  Injustice  itself  is 
a  strong  and  lordlier  thing  than  Justice. 

To  this  barefaced  sophistry  Socrates  replies  that  the 
unjust  man  may  go  too  far;  in  overreaching  his  neigh- 
bors— just  and  unjust  alike — he  breaks  all  the  rules 
of  art,  and  proves  himself  £^n  unskillful  and  ignorant 
workman,  who  has  no  fixed  standard  in  life  to  act  by. 
And  in  an  unjust  ptate,  where  every  man  is  thus  trying 
to  get  the  bet:er  of  his  neighbor,  there  will  be  endless 


THE    llEPUBLIV.  105 

discord  and  divisions,  making  all  united  action  impos- 
sible; it  will  be  like  a  house  divided  against  itself. 
And  as  it  is  wilii  the  unjust  state,  so  will  it  be  with 
the  unjust  man.  He  will  be  ever  at  war  with  himself, 
and  so  unable  to  act  decisively.  Lastly,  the  soul  (like 
the  ear  or  eye)  has  a  work  of  its  own  to  do,  and  a  virtue 
which  enables  it  to  do  that  work  well.  Justice  is  a 
work  of  the  soul,  and  the  just  man  lives  well  and  is 
happy;  and  as  happiness  is  more  profitable  than  misery, 
so  is  Justice  more  profitable  than  Injustice. 

Thrasymachus  is  now  in  a  good  temper  again,  and 
readily  acquiesces  in  all  that  Socrates  has  said;  but 
Glaucon,  shrewd  and  combative,  takes  upon  himself 
the  office  of  "devil's  advocate  "  (for  he  admits  that  his 
own  convictions  are  the  other  way),  and  revives  the 
defence  of  Injustice  from  a  Sophist's  point  of  view. 

"Naturally,"  he  says,  "to  do  injustice  is  a  good, 
and  to  Guffer  it  an  evil :  but  as  men  found  that  the  evil 
was  greater  than  the  g)od,  th  y  made  a  compact  of 
mutual  abstinence,  and  so  justice  is  simply  a  useful 
compromise  under  certain  circumstances.  If  you  were 
to  furnish  the  just  and  unjust  man  each  with  a  ring 
such  as  Gyges  wore  of  old,  making  the  wearer  invisible 
to  all  eyes,  you  would  find  them  both  following  the 
same  lawless  path;  for  no  man  would  be  so  steeled 
against  temptation  as  to  remain  virtuous,  if  he  were  in- 
visible.  As  things  are,  he  finds  honesty  the  best  policy. 

"  Again,  let  us  assume  both  characters— the  just  and 
unjust— to  be  perfect  in  their  parts,  so  that  we  may 
decide  which  is  the  happier  of  the  two.  Our  ideal 
villain  will  reduce  crime  to  a  science-he  will  have 
wealth,  and  money,  and  honor,  and  influence — all  tisat 
this  world  esteems  precious;  he  will  have  a  high  lepu- 
tation  for  justice  (for  this  is  the  crowning  exploit  of  in- 


106'  PLATO. 

jus; ice);  he  will  accomplish  all  his  ends  by  force  or 
fraud,  and  the  gods,  whose  favor  he  will  win  by  cosily 
offerings,  will  sanctify  the  means.  While  thsperfecty 
simple  and  noble  man,  clothed  only  in  his  j;:sticc,  will 
suffer  the  worst  consequences  of  a  lifelong  reputation  i'o.- 
s  eming  to  be  that  which  he  really  is  not — unjust,  lie 
w^ll  be  put  in  chains,  scourged,  tortured,  and  at  last 
put  to  death.  Which  think  you  the  happier  of  these 
two?" 

Then  Adeimantus  takes  up  the  parable, — for  brother, 
he  says,  should  help  brother.  "Men  too  commonly 
make  the  mistake  of  dwelling,  not  upon  the  beauty  of 
Justice  in  itsulf,  but  on  the  worldly  advantages,  the 
honors,  and  the  high  reputation  which  attend  a  just 
life.  It  is  in  this  spirit  that  parents  advise  their  chil- 
dren, and  that  Homer  and  Hesiod  recount  the  blessings 
which  the  gods  bestow  upon  the  pious: 

•' '  Like  to  a  blameless  king,  who,  godlike  in  virtue  andwisdom. 
Justice  ever  maintains;  whose  rich  land  fruitfully  yields  him 
Harvests  of  barley  and  wheat;  and  his  orchards  are  heavy  with 

fruitage. 
Strong  are  the  young  of  his  flocks,  and  the  sea  gives  him  fish  in 

abundance.'* 

And  other  poets  describe  the  glories  of  a  sensual  para- 
dise, wiicre  thjir  heroes  feast  oj  coaches,  crowned  with 
flowers,  and  make  the  fairest  reward  of  virtue  to  be 
'immortal  drunkenness;'  while  they  doom  the  unjust  to 
fill  sieves  and  languish  in  a  swamp  through  all  eter- 
nity. 

"  Others,  again,  strike  out  a  different  line,  and  will 
tell  you  how  narrow  and  difffcult  is  the  way  of  virtue, 
and  how  broad  and  pleasant  is  the  path  of  vice;  and 

*  Hom.  Odyss.,  xix  109  (Da vies  and  Vaughan). 


THE  REPUBilC.  107 

fhey  ararm,  loo,  that  tlij  ^odi  bestow  prosperity  on  the 
\.  ic.icd  auJ  adversity  on  the  good.  And  lastly,  there 
i ;  a  doctrine  of  induli^ences  preached  by  mendicant 
prophet?,  who  profess  to  have  power  to  absolve  the 
rich  man  from  his  sins,  in  this  world  and  the  next,  by 
spells  and  mystic  rites;  and  they  quote  the  poets  to 
prove  that  vice  and  atonement  are  equally  easy. 

"  What  is  a  young  man  to  do  amidst  all  this  conflict* 
ing advice?  Shall  he  make  Justice  'his  strong  tower 
of  defence,'  as  Pindar  says;  or  shall  he  fence  his  char- 
acter with  the  appearance  of  virtue,  and  so  by  fair 
means  or  foul  obtain  that  happiness  which  is  the  end  of 
life?  The  gods— if  at  least  there  are  gods,  and  if  they 
care  for  men's  affairs — can  easily  be  wrought  upon  by 
prayer  and  sacrifice;  and  we  need  have  no  fear  of 
Hades  so  long  as  we  perform  the  mystic  rites.  And  so, 
if  he  combines  injustice  with  the  semblance  of  justice, 
he  will  reap  all  the  advantages  of  both,  and  will  fare 
well  in  both  worlds. 

"The  blame  of  all  this  evil  rests  with  our  poets  and 
teachers,  who  have  always  dwelt  on  the  glories  and 
rewards  following  on  a  just  life,  but  have  never  ade- 
quately discussed  what  Justice  and  Injustice  really  are. 
Could  we  see  them  as  they  are,  we  should  choose  the 
one  as  the  greatest  good,  and  shun  the  other  as  the 
greatest  evil.  It  rests  with  Socrates,"  concludes  Adei- 
mantus,  "  to  show  how  JuvStice  is  itself  a  blessing,  and 
Injustice  a  curse,  to  the  possessor;  and  to  leave  to 
others  the  task  of  describing  the  reputation  and  rewards 
which  indirectly  follow  from  either." 

Socrates  agrees  to  this ;  but  he  pleads  that,  as  he  has 
weak  eyes,  he  must  be  allowed  to  read  the  larger 
writing  first— that  is,  to  look  for  Justice  in  the  State, 
which  is,  after  all,  only  the  individual  "writ  large." 


108  PLATO. 

"The  State  springs,"  he  says,  "from  the  mutual 
needs  of  men,  whose  simplest  outfit  will  require  food, 
shelter,  and  clothing,  so  that  the  least  possible  city 
must  consist  of  four  or  five  men;  and  as  they  will  have 
different  natures,  and  one  man  can  do  one  thing  better 
than  many,  there  will  be  a  natural  division  of  labor. 
Soon,  however,  fresh  wants  will  arise.  Smiths,  car- 
penters, and  shepherds  will  be  found  necessary,  and 
thus  a  population  will  coon  spring  up.  Then  comes  the 
necessity  of  importing  and  exporting,  and  this  will 
produce  merchants  and  sailors;  and  by  degrees  the  ex- 
change of  productions  will  give  rise  to  a  market  and  a 
currency.  Life  in  such  a  city  will  be  simple  and  fru- 
gal. Men  will  build,  and  pbr.t.,  and  till  the  soil.  Their 
food  will  be  coarse  but  wholesome ;  and  on  holidays, 
**  spreading  these  excellent  cakes  and  loaves  upon  mats  of  straw 
or  on  clean  leaves,  and  themselves  reclining  ou  rude  beds  of  yew 
or  myrtle  boughs,  they  Avill  make  merry,  themselves  and  their 
children,  drinking  their  wine,  wearing  garlands,  and  singing  the 
praises  of  the  gods,  enjoying  one  another's  society,  and  not  be- 
getting children  beyond  their  means,  through  a  prudent  fear 
of  poverty  or  war."— D. 

Glaucon  objects  that  if  Socrates  had  been  founding 
"a  city  of  pigs,"  he  could  hardly  have  given  them  \~i>z\ 
and  suggests  that  he  should  add  the  refinements  of 
modern  life. 

I  see,  continues  Socrates,  that  we  shall  have  to 
enlarge  and  decorate  our  State  with  the  fine  arts,  and 
all  the  "fair  humanities"  of  life;  gold  and  ivory, 
paintings  and  embroidery  will  be  found  there ;  and  a 
host  of  ornamental  trades  will  soon  spring  up — danc- 
ers, cooks,  barbers,  musicians,  and  confectioners.  So 
largely,  in  fact,  will  our  population  then  increase,  that 
the  land  will  not  be  able  to  support  it.  Hence  fresh 
territory  must  be  acquired,  and  we  must  go  to  war  to 


THE    REPUBLIC.  109 

get  it.     We  shall  thus  want  a  camp  and  a  standing 
army. 

Now  the  art  of  war,  more  than  any  other,  must  be 
a  separate  craft ;  and  the  soldier's  profession  requires 
not  only  a  natural  aptitude,  but  the  study  of  a  lifetime. 
How  shall  we  choose  those  who  are  to  be  our  Guard- 
ians? Clearly,  they  should  have  all  the  qualities  of 
well-bred  dogs — quick  to  see,  swift  to  follow,  and  strong 
to  fight— brave  and  spirited,  gentle  to  friends,  but  fierce 
against  their  foes.  Their  natures  must  be  harmonized 
by  philosophy;  and  philosophy  involves  education. 

In  our  education  we  will  follow  the  old  routine: 
first.  Music — that  is,  all  training  by  words  and  sounds. 
But  M'e  will  have  a  strict  censorship  of  the  press,  and 
banish  from  our  State  all  those  lying  fables  of  our 
mythology,  as  well  as  the  terrific  descriptions  of  the 
lower  world.  We  will  lay  down,  instead,  types  to 
which  all  tales  told  to  children  must  conform.  Our 
music,  too,  shall  be  simple  and  spirited  strains  after 
the  ''Dorian  mood;"  and  in  sciilpture  and  in  art  we 
will  encourage  the  same  pure  taste.  Thus,  with  fair 
and  graceful  forms  everywhere  around  them,  our  youth 
will  drink  into  their  souls,  "  like  gales  blowing  from 
healthy  lands,"  all  inspirations  of  truth  and  beauty. 

**  In  their  bodily  training,  we  will  encourage  a  plain 
and  healthy  diet,  and  there  shall  be  no  sauces  or  made 
dishes.  Thus  we  shall  want  few  lawyers  and  few  phy- 
siciaus;  no  sleepy  judges,  or  doctors  whose  skill  only 
teaches  them  how  to  prolong  worthless  lives.  Our 
citizens  will  have  no  time  to  be  invalids;  with  us  it 
must  be  "  either  kill  or  cure,"  and  the  evil  body  must 
be  left  to  die,  and  the  evil  soul  must  be  put  to  death. 

Our  Rulers  must  be  chosen  from  our  Guardians — 
the  best  and  oldest  of  the  number;   and  X\\&y  must  bu 


110  PLATO. 

tested — as  gold  is  tried  in  the  furnace—by  pleasure 
and  fear;  and  if  they  come  forth  unstained  and  un- 
scathed from  this  trial,  they  shall  be  honored  both  in 
life  and  death.  And  in  order  that  we  may  secure  a 
proper  esprit  de  corps  among  them,  we  will  invent  and 
impress  upon  them  a  *' noble  falsehood."  "Ye  are 
children  of  earth  (wc  will  tell  them),  all  brethren  from 
the  same  great  mother,  whom  you  arc  in  duty  bound 
to  protect.  Your  creator  mingled  gold  in  the  nature 
of  your  chiefs;  silver  in  that  of  the  soldiers;  brouzc 
and  iron  went  to  form  the  artisans  and  laborers.  It 
is  your  business,  Guardians,  to  keep  intact  this  purity 
of  breed.  No  child  of  gold  must  remain  among  the 
artisans;  no  child  of  iron  among  the  rulers:  for  the 
State  shall  surely  perish  (so  saith  an  oracle)  when  ruled 
by  brass  or  iron,"  And  this  story  must  be  handed 
down  from  father  to  son,  as  a  sacred  form  of  faith  in 
our  State. 

Now  our  Guardians  must  have  neither  houses,  nor 
lands,  nor  dwellings,  nor  storehouses  of  their  own; 
but  only  fixed  pay,  and  a  soldier's  lodging,  and  a  com- 
mon mess-table. 

Adeimantus  objects  that  the  life  of  the  Guardians  can 
scarcely  be  happy  on  these  terms — with  no  money  to 
spend  on  themselves  or  their  friends,  kept  on  "board- 
wages,"  and  always  on  duty. 

It  is  not  our  business  (answers  Socrates)  to  insure  the 
happiness  of  a  class.  But  our  Guardians  will  be  happy 
— that  is,  if  they  do  their  duty,  preserve  the  unity  of  the 
State,  maintain  the  golden  mean  between  wc-ilth  and 
poverty,  and  be  ever  on  the  watch  against  the  spirit  of 
innovation — dangerous  even  in  music,  doubly  so  in 
education— and  leave  the  highest  and  most  saci'ed 
legislation  to  our  ancestral  god  of  Delphi. 


THE  REPUBLIC.  Ill 

But  (he  interrupts  himself  suddenly)  we  are  forget- 
ting Justice  all  this  time.  We  must  light  a  candle  and 
search  our  city  diligently,  now  that  we  have  founded 
one,  till  we  find  it.  Clearly  our  State,  if  it  be  perfect^ 
will  contain  the  four  cardinal  virtues;  and,  if  we  can 
first  discover  three  out  of  the  four,  the  unknown  re- 
mainder must  be  Justice. 

Wisdom  will  be  the  science  of  protection,  possessed 
by  our  Guardians;  and  true  Courage  will  be  engrained 
in  the  hearts  of  our  soldiers  by  law  and  education; 
and  Temperance  will  be  that  social  harmony  pervading 
the  State,  and  making  all  the  citizens  to  be  of  one  mind, 
like  strings  attempered  to  one  scale.  But  wliere  is 
Justice?  Here  at  our  feet,  after  all,  for  it  can  be  noth- 
ing else  than  our  original  principle  of  division  of  labor: 
for  a  man  is  just  when  he  does  his  own  business,  and 
does  not  meddle  with  his  neighbor's. 

And,  returning  to  Man,  we  shall  also  find  three  parts 
in  his  soul  corresponding  to  the  three  classes  in  our 
State.  Reason,  which  should  rule  ;  Desire,  which 
should  obey;  and  Passion,*  which  is  properly  the  ally 
of  reason,  and  is  restrained  by  it  as  a  dog  is  restrained 
by  a  shepherd.  "We  shall  also  find  the  same  cardinal 
virtues  in  the  man  as  in  the  State. 

The  just  man  will  live  uprightly,  and  will  reduce  all 
the  elements  of  his  soul  to  unison  and  harmony;  and 
as  to  the  original  question  "whether  injustice,  if  un- 
detected, pays  in  this  life?"  we  may  answer  that  it  is 
amoral  disease— and  that,  as  in  the  body,  so  in  the 
soul,  if  the  constitution  is  ruined,  life  will  not  be  worth 
having. 

*  There  is  no  English  equivalent  for  the  Greek  word  thumos 
—which  combines  the  several  meanings  which  we  express  in  the 
orords  spirit,  passion,  honor,  anger,  all  in  one. 


112  PLATO. 

Then  Socrates  lays  down  the  details  of  the  system 
of  Communism  which  he  proposes  to  carry  out  in  his 
State.  "Following  further  our  comparison  of  sheep- 
dogs, men  and  women  are  to  have  the  same  emloy- 
ment  (for  there  is  no  real  difference  between  the  sexes), 
and  will  go  out  to  war  together.  Marriages  must  be 
strictly  regulated;  and,  as  in  the  case  of  dogs  or  game 
fowl,  we  must  keep  up  the  purity  of  breed.  The  best 
must  marry  the  best,  and  the  worst  the  worst;  and 
the  children  of  the  former  must  be  carefully  reared, 
while  any  offspring  from  the  latter  must  be  exposed. 
There  must  be  a  public  nursery,  and  no  mother  must 
know  her  own  child.  Thus,  where  all  have  common 
sympathies  and  interests,  and  there  are  no  jealousies 
arising  from  separate  families  or  properties,  the  State 
will  be  most  thoroughly  at  unity  with  itself. 

**  These  children  of  the  State  shall  be  present  in 
the  battel-neld— but  at  a  safe  distance — to  stimulate  the 
courage  of  our  warriors,  and  accustom  our  young  to  the 
rcene  of  their  future  duties.  And  in  war,  the  runaway 
aa:l  coward  shfiU  bs  degraded:  but  the  brave  shall  be 
(i-owued  and  shall  wed  the  fair;  he  shall  be  honored 
at  the  sacrifice  and  banquet,  and  if  he  falls,  we  shall 
proclaim  that  ha  sprang  from  the  race  of  gold,  and  now 
ha  mts  the  earth  in  the  form  of  a  holy  and  powerful 
fcipirit. 

"  War  between  Greek  and  Greek  is  an  unnatural 
feud,  and  therefore  we  will  not  despoil  the  bodies  of 
the  dead — for  there  is  a  meanness  in  injuring  a  body 
whence  the  soul  has  fled ;  nor  will  we  enslave  a  free 
Greek,  nor  lay  waste  Greek  land,  or  burn  houses,  as 
heretofore." 

Glaucon  is  willing  to  admit  that  this  ideal  State  will 
have  a  thousand  advantages  over  any  at  present  in 


THE  REPUBLIC,  113 

existence,  if  only  it  could  be  realized.  How  is  this  to 
be  brought  about? 

Our  State  might  be  realized,  Socrates  replies,  on  one 
condition— preposterous  as  it  will  seem  to  the  world— 
"  philosophsrs  must  be  kings;"  or,  failing  this,  the 
princes  of  this  world  must  be  imbued  with  the  true 
philosophic  spirit. 

And  what,  then,  is  a  philosopher?  He  is  a  rare  and 
perfect  being,  wlio  takes  all  knowledge  and  virtue  as 
his  portion ;  he  is  "the  spectator  of  all  time  and  all 
existence,"  for  he  knows  the  absolute  and  real  ideas  of 
beauty,  truth,  and  justice — far  removed  from  the  uncer- 
tain twilight  of  opinion.  He  is  free  from  the  mean- 
ness or  injustice  of  petty  natures;  he  is  lordly  in  his 
conceptions,  gracious  in  manner,  with  a  quick  mem- 
ory, and  a  well-adjusted  mind.  It  is  no  argument, 
continues  Socrates,  to  say  that  among  the  so-called 
philosophers  of  the  present  day  you  will  find  many 
rogues  and  fools.  It  is  so;  but  the  fault  rests  not  with 
philosophy  itself,  but  with  the  ignorant  multitude,  and 
with  the  pretentious  teachers  of  our  youth;  for  rare 
talents  may  be  perverted  by  bad  training,  and  strong 
but  ill-regulated  minds  will  produce  the  greatest  evils. 
A  young  and  noble  character  has  indeed  little  chance 
of  withstanding  the  corruptions  of  the  age.  The  ful- 
some compliments  of  friends  and  advisers,  the  sense- 
less clamor  of  the  law-court  or  the  Assembly,  combine 
to  ruin  him;  and,  worse  than  all,  the  influence  of  the 
Sophists,  who  act  as  keepers  to  this  many-headed  monster 
of  a  people,  understanding  its  habits  and  humoring 
its  caprices,  calling  what  it  fancies  good  and  what  it 
dislikes  evil.  And  thus  Philosophy  herself  is  left  deso- 
late, and  a  crowd  of  vulgar  interlopers  leave  their 
proper  trades  and  rush  in  like  escaped  prisoners  iuto  a 


111  PLATO. 

sanctuary,  and  profane  the  Temple  of  Truth.  There' 
can  be  but  one  result  to  such  a  debasing  alliance  as 
this — a  host  of  spurious  sophisms.  Few  and  rare  in- 
deed are  the  cases  where  mon  of  nobler  stamp  have 
remained  uncorrupted;  whom  some  favorable  accident, 
such  as  exile,  or  indifference,  or  ill  health — or  it  may 
l)e  i;Socrates  adds,  as  in  my  own  peculiar  case,  an  in- 
ward sign  from  heaven — has  saved  from  such  entan- 
glements. 

Claarly,  then,  the  real  philosopher,  who  is  to  stand 
aloof  from  that  wild  beast's  den  which  we  call  public 
life,  has  no  place  or  lot  among  us  as  things  are  now. 
He  is  like  some  rare  exotic,  which,  if  transplanted  to  a 
foreign  soil,  would  soon  fade  and  wither;  for  he  requires 
a  perfect  State  to  fulfill  the  perfection  of  his  own 
nature — a  State  such  as  may  perhaps  have  once  existed 
ia  the  countless  ages  that  are  passed,  or  even  exists 
now  "  in  some  foreign  clime  far  beyond  the  limits  of 
our  own  horizon."  * 

And  in  this  State,  of  which  we  are  giving  the  glo- 
rious outlines,  philosophers  must  rule,  in  spite  of 
their  personal  reluctance;  for  they  owe  us  nurture- 
wages  for  their  training ;  and  must  for  a  time  forego 
their  higher  life  of  contemplation.  They  will  be  nobly 
fi  tted  for  their  office,  for  their  intellectual  training  will 
have  taken  them  step  by  step  through  the  higher 
branches  of  knowledge— Arithmetic,  Geometry,  and 
Astiomony — all  studied  with  a  view  to  deeper  and 
ideal  truths.  By  a  strict  and  repeated  process  of  selec- 
tion, all  except  those  of  a  resolute  and  noble  nature  will 

*  Here,  at  the  end  of  the  Sixth  and  the  beginning  of  the 
Seventh  Book  in  the  original,  comes  a  description  of  the  higher 
education  which  these  philosophers  must  undergo,  and  of  which 
ft  sketch  is  given  in  chap.  vii. 


THE  REPUBLIC.  115 

be  excluded  from  the  number  of  these  "  saviors  of  the 
State;"  again  and  again  these  will  be  tested  and  ex- 
amined, and  a  select  list  made,  till  at  last  the  studies  of 
the  chosen  few  will  culminate  in  Dialectic,  the  coping- 
stone  of  all  the  Sciences.  Their  souls  will  then  have 
mounted  from  gloom  to  daylight;  they  will  compre- 
hend first  principles,  and  they  will  be  privileged  to 
know  and  define  in  its  real  nature  the  Idea  of  Good. 
At  the  age  of  fifty  they  shall  be  tested  for  their  final 
work,  and  if  they  come  out  unscathed  from  the  trial, 
the  remainder  of  their  life  shall  be  passed  partly  in 
philosophy,  partly  in  practical  politics — till  death  shall 
remove  them  to  the  Islands  of  the  Blest,  and  a  grateful 
city  shall  honor  them  with  monuments  and  sacrifices. 


Such  is  our  State,  continues  Socrates  in  the  Eighth 
Book, — perfect,  so  long  as  its  various  parts  shall  act  in 
harmony;  but,  like  other  mortal  productions,  it  is  fated 
to  change  and  decay  at  a  certain  period,  determined 
by  a  mystic  number.  So  also  there  is  a  cycle  which 
controls  all  human  births  for  good  or  evil;  and,  in  the 
lapse  of  years,  it  must  be  that  our  Gaurdians  will  miss 
the  propitious  time;  a  degenerate  offspring  will  thus 
come  into  being,  Education  will  languish,  and  there 
will  be  a  gradual  decline  in  the  Constitution. 

The  first  stage  in  this  "decline  and  fall"  will  be  a 
Timocracy,  marked  by  a  spirit  of  ambition  and  love  of 
gain ;  in  which  the  art  of  war  will  preponderate,  and 
our  Gaurdians  will  think  lightly  of  philosophy  and 
much  of  political  power. 

Then  comes  an  Oligarchy,  where  gold  is  all-power- 
ful a.ul  virtue  is  depreciated;  and  the  State  becomes 
divided  iu.o  two  hostile  classe — one  enormously  rich, 


116  PLATO. 

the  other  miserably  poor-,  and  in  it  paupers  and  crim- 
inals multiply,  and  education  deteriorates. 

There  is  a  change,  says  our  theorist,  in  the  character 
of  the  individual  citizen  corresponding  to  each  of  these 
changes  in  the  form  of  government;  but  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  minute  analysis  of  the  causes  of 
this  change,  and  the  result  of  certain  characteristics 
in  each  parent,  would  strike  a  modern  reader  as  some- 
thing more  than  fanciful. 

The  intemperate  desire  of  riches,  and  the  license  and 
extravagance  thus  encouraged,  do  their  own  work  in 
the  State,  until  you  find  everywhere  grasping  misers 
and  ruined  spendthrifts.  Meanwhile  the  lower  orders 
grow  turbulent  and  conscious  of  their  power.  Their 
insubordination  soon  brings  matters  to  a  crisis:  there 
is  a  revolution,  and  a  Democracy  is  the  result.  This 
may  be  defined  as  "a  pleasant  and  lawless  and  motley 
constitution,  giving  equal  rights  to  unequal  persons;" 
and  it  is  pervaded  by  a  marvelous  freedom  in  speech 
and  action,  and  a  strange  diversity  of  character.  Each 
man  docs  what  he  likes  in  his  own  eyes,  with  a  mag- 
nanimous disregard  of  the  law:  he  obeys  or  disobeys 
at  his  own  pleasure;  and  if  some  criminal  be  sentenced 
to  death  or  exile,  you  will  probably  meet  him  the  next 
day,  come  to  life  again,  and  parading  the  streets  like  a 
hero.  There  is  something  splendid,  concludes  Socrates 
comically,  in  the  forbearance  of  such  a  commonwealth, 
an.l  in  its  entire  superiority  to  all  petty  considerations. 
Again,  the  democrat  is  like  the  democracy.  Brought 
up  in  a  miserly  and  ignorant  way  by  his  father,  the 
oligarch,  the  young  man  is  soon  corrupted  by  bad  com- 
pany, and  a  swarm  of  passions  and  wild  and  presump- 
tuous theories  seize  the  citadel  of  his  reason,  whence 
temperance   and   modesty  are  expelled.      Even  if  n(;t 


THE  REPUBLIC.  117 

thorousfhly  reprobate,  he  is  at  the  mercy  of  each  fleet- 
ing caprice,  and  gives  way  to  the  humor  of  the  hour, 
now  reveling  with  wine  and  music,  now  fasting  on 
bread  and  water— now  an  idler,  and  now  a  student;  by 
(urns  politician,  general,  or  trader.* 

Im  a  thoroughgoing  democracy  we  have  liberty  and 
equality  everywhere — in  fact  there  is  soon  a  uni- 
versal anarchy.  Respect  for  rank  and  age  soon  dies 
out.  Father  and  son,  teacher  and  scholar,  master  and 
servant  are  all  on  the  same  dead  level.  The  very 
ainmals  (says  the  speaker,  with  an  amusing  touch  of 
satire)  becomes  gorged  with  freedom,  and  will  run  at 
you  if  you  get  in  their  way. 

But  extremes  in  politics  produce  a  reaction ;  and  the 
result  of  excessive  freedom  is  excessive  slavery.  From 
a  Democracy  to  a  Tyranny  is  an  easy  stage.  Some 
demagogue,  who  has  shown  unusual  talent  in  extort- 
ing money  from  the  richer  class  to  feed  those  "sting- 
ing and  stingless  drones"  of  whom  we  spoke,  is 
adopted  by  the  people  as  their  champion,  and  gradually 
strengthens  his  influence.  It  is  always  the  same  story 
— he  banishes,  confiscates,  murders,  and  then  his  own 
life  is  threatened,  and  he  obtains  a  body-guard.  Woe 
to  the  rich  man  then,  if  he  does  not  fly  at  once,  for  it 
will  be  arrest  and  death  if  he  lingers. 

At  first  the  Tyrant  will  be  all  smiles  and  promises; 
but,  once  firmly  seated,  he  will  change  his  tactics.  He 
will  employ  his  citizens  in  incessant  war  to  weaken 

*  Professor  Jowett  quotes  Dryden's  well-known  description  of 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham— 

"  A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be 

Not  one  but  all  mankind's  epitome." 

He  thinks  that  Alcibiades  is  referred  to;  but  the  lines  would  ap. 

ply  equally  well  to  Critias,  Plato's  uncle  (Curtius,  Hist.  Greece, 

»i.  542). 


118  PLATO. 

their  strength,  and  rid  the  state  of  bold  and  powerful 
spirits;  he  will  increase  his  guards,  he  will  plunder 
the  rich  and  humble  the  strong,  and  thus  free  men  will 
pass  under  the  yoke  of  slavery. 

The  man  who  answers  to  the  Tyrant  in  private  life 
will  have  his  soul  under  the  dominion  of  monstro;::; 
lusts  and  appetites,  squandering  and  plundering,  and 
passing  on  from  sin  to  sin. 

Thus  a  Tyranny  is  the  worst  and  most  miserable 
State  of  all.  Not  only  are  the  citizens  in  it  reduced 
to  slavery,  and  distracted  by  fear  and  grief,  but  the 
Tyrant  himself,  with  all  his  power  and  splendor, 
never  knows  the  blessings  of  peace  and  friendship. 
Like  some  great  slave-master  in  a  desert,  he  lives 
alone  in  a  crowd:  shunned  and  detested  by  those 
about  him,  tormented  by  remorse,  and  haunted  by  a 
lifelong  terror,  he  is  himself  the  most  pitiable  slave  of 
all. 

The  only  pleasure  that  such  a  man  ever  knows  is 
mere  sensual  enjoyment— in  itself  worthless  and  fleet- 
ing. The  attractions  of  gold  or  of  glory  are  of  a 
nobler  stamp;  but  the  best  and  purest  of  all  pleasures 
that  a  man  can  feel,  and  the  ineffable  sweetness  of 
which  the  world  can  never  realize,  is  that  which  the 
philosopher  alone  finds  in  the  study  and  contemplation 
of  existence.  For  he  prunes  close  the  hydra-headed 
passions  by  which  the  many  are  enslaved,  and  sub- 
jects the  lion  to  the  man,  by  making  reason  rule  his 
soul.  Thus  none  can  measure  his  happiness;  but  it 
cannot  be  possessed  by  any  in  perfection,  save  in  our 
own  ideal  state— "  which  does  not,  indeed,  at  present 
exist  in  this  world,  but  has,  perhaps,  its  pattern  laid 
up  in  beaven  for  him  who  is  willing  to  see  it,  and, 
seeing  if,  rules  his  life  on  earth  accordingly."  * 

*Rep.  ix.  ad  fin. 


THE  REPUBLIC.  119 

Buch  is  the  Platonic  State,  with  its  strange  medley 
of  noble  aspirations  and  impr;icticable  details.  How 
far  Plato  himself  believed  it  to  be  ideal,  or  how  far,  if  he 
had  been  Alexander's  tutor,  he  would  have  trie.i  to 
carry  it  out  in  history,  we  have  no  means  of  telling. 
But  it  is  easy  to  understand  his  feeling,  and  the  point 
of  view  from  which  he  wrote.  He  is  weary  of  the  pre- 
tensions, the  falsehood,  and  the  low  morality  around 
him — ("it  is  dreadful  to  think,"  he  says,  "  that  half  the 
people  we  meet  have  perjured  themselves  in  one  of  the 
numerous  law  courts") — and  so  he  turns  away  with  a 
sort  of  despair  from  the  sad  realities  of  Athenian  life; 
and  instead  of  writing  a  bitter  satire,  as  a  Roman  might 
have  done,  or  waging  war  against  the  society  he  de- 
spises in  "latter-day  pamphlets,"  he  throws  himself  as 
far  as  he  can  out  of  the  present,  with  all  its  degrading 
associations,  and  builds  for  himself  (as  we  have  seen) 
a  new  State — after  a  divine  and  perfect  pattern — in 
a  world  a  thousand  leagues  from  his  own. 

Those  "  three  waves  "  of  the  "  Republic  "  (as  Socrates 
terms  them) — the  communities  of  families  and  that  of 
property,  and  the  assumption  that  philosophers  must 
be  kings — which  threaten  to  swamp  the  argument  even 
with  such  friendly  criticism  as  Glaucon  and  Adeimantus 
venture  to  offer,  prove  with  less  partial  opponents  in- 
surmountable obstacles  to  the  realisation  of  the  Platonic 
State.  Aristotle  heads  the  list  of  objectors,  and  disap- 
proves both  of  the  end  and  the  means  to  be  pursued. 
So  far  from  promoting  the  unity  of  the  State,  he  argues 
that  Plato's  system  of  Communism  will  create  an  end- 
less division  of  interests  and  sympathies;  will  tend  to 
destroy  the  security  of  life  and  property;  and,  among 
other  evils,  will  do  away  with  the  virtues  of  charity 
and  liberality,  by  allowing  no  room  for  their  exercise. 


120  PLATO. 

Modern  critics  generally  toiicb  upon  the  repression  of 
all  individual  energy,  the  cramping  of  all  free  thought 
and  action,  and  the  necessary  abolition  of  any  sense  of 
mutual  rights  and  obligations  which  are  necessary  parts 
of  Plato's  system ;  and  De  Quincey  has  denounced  in 
an  eloquent  passage  the  social  immorality  encouraged  by 
Plato's  marriage  regulations,  and  his  "sensual  bounty 
0:1  infanticide"— cutting  adrift  the  little  boat  to  go 
down  the  Niagara  of  violent  death,  in  the  very  next 
night  after  its  launching  on  its  unknown  river  of  life."* 
Plato's  "  Republic  "  is  the  first  of  along  series  of  ideal 
States;!  and  we  find  tlie  original  thought  "Romanized" 
by  Cicero,  "Christianized"  by  St.  Augustine  in  his 
'  City  of  God,'  and  in  more  modern  times  reappearing 
in  Sir  Thomas  More's  '  Utopia,'  and  in  Lord  Bacon's 
'New  Atlantis,*  with  its  wonderful  anticipations  of 
modern  science.  We  have  in  our  own  day  seen  speci- 
mens of  the  same  class  of  literature  in  works  like 
*Erewhon  '  and  '  The  Coming  Race.* 

THE   LAWS. 

This  Dialogue  is  the  last  and  the  longest  that  Plato 
wrote,  and  bears  traces  of  the  hand  of  old  age.  The 
fire  and  spirit  of  his  earlier  works  seems  gone,  while 
Plato  himself  is  changed;  he  is  not  only  older,  but 
more  conservative,  more  dogmatic,  and — we  must  also 
say — more  intolerant  and  narrow-minded  than  was 
his  wont.  Much  had  happened  since  he  wrote  the 
"Republic"  to  disenchant  him  of  visionary  politics. 
His  mission  to  Syracuse  had  proved,  as  we  have  seen 


*  De  Quincey,  viii. 

t  An  interesting:  account  of  these  States  may  be  found  in  Sir 
G.  C.  Lewis's  Methods  of  Reasoning  in  Politics,  II.  cli.  xxiL 


THE  LAWS,  121 

a  miserable  failure,  and  his  grand  schemes  of  reform 
had  sadly  ended  in  the  violent  death  of  his  friend 
Dion.  And  so  the  tone  of  the  "  Laws  "  is  grave,  prosaic, 
and  even  commonplace  in  its  trivial  details.  The 
liigh  aspirations  of  the  "  Republic  "  have  sobered  down 
into  a  tedious  and  minute  legislation.  The  king- 
philosophers,  with  their  golden  pedigree  and  elaborate 
training,  are  here  superseded  by  a  council  of  elderly 
citizens  elected  by  vote.  The  celestial  world  of  '  'Ideas" 
and  the  sublime  heights  of  Dialectic  have  passed  from 
view;  the  study  of  science  is  curtailed;  and  it  is 
even  hinted  that  a  young  man  may  possibly  have 
too  much  of  education.  But  Plato  seems  to  have 
grown  even  more  impressed  than  before  with  the  be- 
lief thar  the  State  should  mould  the  characters  and 
keep  the  conscioices  of  its  citizens:  he  is  imbued, 
says  Mr.  Grote,  "with  the  persecuting  spirit  of  mediae- 
val Catholicism;"  there  is  a  strict  "Act  of  Uniformity," 
and  all  dissenters  from  it  are  branded  as  criminals; 
while  religion,  poetiy,  music,  and  education  generally 
are  placed  under  State  surveillance. 

The  first  four  books  of  the  "Laws "form  a  kind 
of  desultory  preface  to  the  detailed  legislation  which 
occupies  the  remaining  eight.  The  scene  of  the  Dia- 
logue is  laid  in  the  island  of  Crete,  and  the  speakers 
are  three  old  men— an  Athenian,  a  Spartan,  and  a 
Cretan — who  meet  on  the  road  to  the  temple  of 
Jupiter  at  Gnossus,  and  discuss,  as  they -walk,  the  form 
of  government  in  their  respective  States.  Sparta  and 
Crete  were  then  standing  instances  of  the  perfection  to 
which  military  training  might  be  brought,  and  a  war- 
like ideal  realized.  Both  cities  resembled  permanent 
camps,  with  severe  discipline,  continual  drill,  a  public 
mess,    and    barrack  life    taking    the  place  of  family 


122  i'l^-^  TO. 

life  and  affections.  But  the  Athenian,  though  not 
denying  the  superiority  of  Spartan  troops,  finds  much 
to  criticise  in  the  principle  of  the  Spartan  system.  It 
has  only  developed  courage,  which  is,  after  all,  hut  a 
fourth-rate  virtue;  and  it  has  proceeded  on  the  mis- 
taken notion  that  man's  natural  state  is  war.  Other 
virtues — such  as  wisdom  and  temperance— are  thus 
made  of  little  account;  and  Sparta  has  banished 
pleasure,  which  is  really  as  effectual  a  test  of  self- 
control  as  pain.  Wine,  too,  is  forbidden  there — 
though  it  is  a  most  useful  medium  for  discovering  a 
man's  strength  or  weakness;  indeed,  at  the  festival  of 
Bacchus  there  ought,  the  Athenian  thinks,  to  be  a 
drinking  tournament — with  a  sober  president — and  all 
honor  should  be  paid  to  the  youth  who  could  drink 
hardest  and  longest.  For  it  is  clear  that  the  man  with 
the  strongest  head  at  the  banquet  will  be  the  coolest 
and  most  imperturbable  on  the  battle-field.  Again, 
wine  softens  and  humanizes  the  character;  it  cures 
the  sourness  of  old  age,  and  under  its  influence  we 
renew  our  youth  and  forget  our  sorrows.  And  if  you 
want  to  try  a  friend's  honor  and  integrity — m  vino 
Veritas;  ply  him  with  wine,  and  you  will  read  all  the 
secrets  of  his  heart.  But  with  all  this,  there  should  be 
a  stringent  "Licensing  Act."  The  times  and  seasons 
when  wine  may  be  drunk  should  be  strictly  defined  by 
law;  and  no  soldier  on  active  service,  no  slave,  no 
judge  or  magistrate  during  his  year  of  office,  no  pilot 
on  duty,  should  be  allowed  to  drink  wine  at  all;  and, 
if  these  precautions  are  carried  out,  a  city  will  not 
need  many  vineyards. 

The  use  of  wine  as  a  means  of  training  opens  the 
general  question  of  Education,  which  is  exanined  ngaia 
at  greater  length  in  the  Seventh  Book  of  the  tre.itis  ; 


THE    LAWS.  123 

and  then  Plato  passes  on  to  the  origin  of  society.  In 
the  *'  Republic,"  the  State  is  made  to  spring  from  the 
mutual  needs  of  men ;  but  here  it  is  developed  from 
the  House— in  fact,  we  find  in  this  treatise  the 
"patriarchal "  theory. 

J  In  the  illimitable  past,  says  Plato,  there  must  have 
been  thousands  and  thousands  of  cities  which  rose  and 
flourished  for  a  time,  and  then  were  swept  away;  for 
at  certain  fixed  periods  a  deluge  comes,  which  covers 
the  whole  earth  and  destroys  all  existing  civilization, 
leaving  only  a  vast  expanse  of  desert,  and  a  few  sur- 
vivors on  the  mountain-tops.  This  remnant  clings 
together  with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  Eich 
little  family,  under  the  strict  rule  of  the  "house 
father,"  lives  in  a  primitive  and  simple  manner  oa  the 
produce  of  its  flocks  and  herds,  like  the  Homeric 
Cyclops : 

"Unsown,  untended,  corn  and  wine  and  oil 

Spring  to  their  liand ;  but  tliey  no  councils  know, 

Nor  justice,  but  forever  lawless  go. 

Housed  in  the  hills,  they  neither  buy  nor  sell. 

No  kindly  offices  demand  or  show ; 

Each  in  the  hollow  cave  where  he  doth  dwell 
Gives  law  to  wife  and  children,  as  he  thinketh  well."* 

Gradually  several  of  these  isolated  units  coalesced, 
and  thus  the  family  developed  into  the  tribe,  and 
several  tribes  uniting  made  the  State.  Then  came  a 
government,  and  a  code  of  laws. 

Plato  next  passes  in  review  the  ancient  legends  of 
his  own  country — the  Trojan  War,  the  Return  of  the 
Heraclidse,  the  Dorian  settlement  in  the  Peloponnese; 
and  he  traces  in  the  history  of  those  times  seven  dis- 

*  Homer,  Od.  ix.,  Worsley's  transl.  There  is  an  interesting 
account  of  this  patriarchal  age  in  Maine's  Ancient  Law,  chap.  v. 


124  PLATO. 

tinct  and  recognized  titles  to  obedience— namely,  the 
authorily  of  parents  over  children,  of  nobles  over  infe- 
riors, of  elder  over  younger,  of  master  over  slave,  the 
natural  principle  that  the  strong  should  rule  the  weak, 
and  the  no  less  natural  principle  that  the  wise  should 
have  dominion  over  the  fool;  and  lastly,  there  is  the 
power  conferred  by  the  casting  of  the  lot— in  which 
Plato  recognizes,  as  distinctly  as  the  Hebrew  legislator, 
the  hand  of  Heaven. 

A  great  lesson,  he  continues,  may  be  learned  from 
these  ancient  States — for  they  all  perished  from  inter- 
nal discords — that  limited  power  among  the  rulers,  and 
harmony  and  obedience  to  the  laws  among  the  subjects, 
are  the  safeguards  of  every  community.  Thus  Provi- 
dence wisely  tempered  the  kingly  power  in  Sparta 
with  Ephors  and  a  Senate,  and  so  produced  a  healthy 
balance  in  the  constitution ;  while  Persia  fell  from  her 
high  place  among  the  nations  from  the  excess  of 
despotic  power,  and  the  want  of  good  will  between 
the  despot  and  his  people.  The  great  Cyris  and 
Darius  both  received  a  warrior's  training,  and  won 
their  own  way  to  the  throne;  while  Cambyses  and 
Xerxes,  born  in  the  purple  and  bred  in  the  harem, 
proved  weak  and  degenerate  princes,  and  their  ruin 
was  the  result  of  their  evil  bringing  up.  Athens,  again, 
went  wrong  in  the  other  extreme ,  for  with  us,  says  the 
Athenian,  it  is  always  excess  of  freedom  that  does  the 
mischief.  Of  old,  law  was  supreme  in  every  part  of 
the  State— especially  in  music,  with  its  four  primitive 
and  simple  divisions.  Reverence,  and  the  fear  "  which 
tlie  coward  never  feels,"  prevailed;  all  classes  were 
united,  and  fought  for  their  common  hearths  and  sepul- 
chresj  and  the  >irand  result  was  Marathon  and  Salamis. 
But  gradually  a  change  has  come  over  our  national 


THE   LAW8.  125 

character.  There  has  been  a  growing  lawlessness,  be- 
ginning in  the  Music,  and  spreading  thence  through- 
out the  community.  We  no  longer  any  of  us  listen  in 
respectful  silence  to  the  judgment  of  siperior  interest^ 
l.ut  are  one  and  all  become  ace  mp  is  el  critics,  ad 
every  one  knows  everything.  Awe  and  reverence  have 
gone  forever;  and  there  is  a  shameless  disregard  for 
authority,  whether  of  parents,  or  elders,  or  rulers, 
even  the  majesty  of  the  gods  is  slighted,  and  the  oaths 
sworn  by  them  are  made  of  no  account. 

Here,  with  the  Third  Book,  ends  "the  prelude"  to 
the  *'  Laws."  By  a  happy  coincidence  (says  the  Cretan 
in  the  Dialogue),  his  countrymen  are  just  going  to 
found  a  colony,  and  he  is  one  of  the  ten  commissioners 
appointed  to  give  laws  to  the  colonists.  Will  the 
Athenian  give  him  some  hints  on  the  ^ubject? 

It  is  clear  (replies  the  Aihenian)  th  t  all  legislation 
should  aim  at  carrying  out  three  principles — namely, 
freedom,  unity,  and  wisdom;  and  that  State  will  be 
best  where  the  law  is  best  adrainisitired  by  the  rulers 
who  are  its  servants,  and  where  the  happiness  of  the 
community  is  the  sole  object  of  their  legislation. 

"  The  difficulty  is  to  find  the  divine  love  of  temperate  and  just 
institutions  existing  in  any  powerful  forms  of  government, 
whether  in  a  monarchy  or  oligarch 3;^  of  wealth  or  of  birth.  You 
might  as  well  hope  to  reproduce  the  charactar  of  Nestor,  who  is 
said  to  have  excelled  all  men  in  the  power  of  speech,  and  yet 
more  in  his  temperance.  This,  however,  according  to  the  tradi- 
tion, was  in  the  times  of  Troy:  in  our  own  days  there  was  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  But  if  such  an  one  either  has  or  ever  shall 
come  into  being,  or  is  now  among  us,  blessed  is  he,  and  blessed 
are  they  who  hear  the  wise  words  that  flow  from  his  lips.  And 
this  may  be  said  of  power  in  general :  when  the  supreme  power 
in  man  coincides  with  the  greatest  wisdom  and  temperance, 
then  the  best  laws  are  by  nature  framed,  and  the  best  constitu- 
tion; but  in  no  other  way  will  they  ever  come  into  being."— J. 


126  PLATO. 

If  you  could  find  a  despot,  young,  noble,  and  en- 
thusiastic— fortunate,  moreover,  in  being  advised  by 
some  great  legislator — you  will  have  your  city  founded 
at  once;  for  the  change  from  a  despotism  to  a  perfect 
government  is  the  easiest  of  all.* 

In  our  legislation  we  will  head  each  enactment  with 
a  prelude  or  preamble,  to  show  the  nature  of  the  case 
and  the  spirit  of  the  law, — appealing  thus  to  the  reason 
of  our  citizens,  that  they  be  rather  persuaded  than 
forced  to  obey ;  more  especially  as  there  are  many  cases 
which  the  law  can  never  reach,  and  where  we  can  only 
declare  the  solemn  utterances  of  Heaven,  speaking 
through  the  law  to  all  who  are  willing  to  hear  and  un- 
derstand. 

Our  city,  then,  shall  be  built  nine  miles  from  th© 
sea,  in  a  country  which  has  more  hill  than  plain. 
There  will  be  little  timber  for  shipbuilding;  but  this 
is  of  no  importance,  as  we  shall  not  aim  at  naval 
power,  nor  will  war  be  our  normal  state.  The  colon- 
ists should,  if  possible,  be  all  of  the  same  country — 
like  a  swarm  of  bees — as  they  will  be  then  more  united; 
though  perhaps  a  mixed  multitude  would  be  more 
tractable. 

The  number  of  citizens  shall  be  originally  fixed,  and 
as  far  as  possible  kept  at  5040,  f  and  to  each  citizen 
shall  be  awarded  land  suflScient  to  maintain  his  family 
(for  community  of  property   cannot  be  carried  out), 

*  Plato's  opinion  of  the  "  Tyrant"  is  greatly  modified,  since  he 
declared  in  the  "Republic"  that  "tyranny"  was  729  degrees 
removed  from  perfection ;  but  here  he  is  probaby  thinking  of  the 
younger  Dionysius  (see  p.  7). 

t  Plato  gives  as  his  reason  for  fixing  on  this  number,  that  it  is 
easily  divisible.  He  remarks  also  that  it  is  not  too  large  to  ad 
mit  of  their  all  knowing  one  another,— though  that  would  involve 
a  somewhat  large  circle  of  acquaintances. 


'       •  THE  LAWS.  127 

but  son  shall  succeed  father,  and  none  shall  sell  or 
divide  his  lot,  on  pain  of  being  cursed  by  ihe  priests 
as  an  offender  against  heaven  and  the  law.  There 
shall  bj  a  State  currency;  but  no  usury  or  accumula- 
tion of  private  fortune  shall  be  allowed,  jo  that  ex- 
tremes of  wealth  and  poverty  may  be  equally  avoided. 

The  State  is  to  be  governed  in  somewhat  complicated 
fashion.  There  are  to  be  thirty-seven  guardians  of  the 
laws,  and  a  council  of  360  elected  from  the  whole  body 
of  citizens.  Each  department  of  public  business  is  to 
have  its  own  officers.  There  are  to  be  "country  war- 
dens," who  would  seem  to  combine  the  duties  of  modern 
county  court  judges  and  rural  police.  For  municipal 
duties  there  are  wardens  of  the  city  and  market,  all 
with  magisterial  powers.  There  are  to  be  law-courts 
and  judges — though  arbitration  is  recommended  where 
it  is  possible — and  there  is  a  high  court  of  appeal. 

Marriages  are  to  be  strictly  regulated,  since  their  ob- 
ject is  to  produce  a  noble  and  healthy  offspring.  Slaves 
should  be  treated  with  more  perfect  justice  than  we 
show  to  equals,  and  all  levity  and  cruelty  towards 
them  should  be  avoided, 

Then  follow  some  desultory  remarks  on  education, 
which  should  (Plato  thinks)  be  compulsory — since  chil- 
dren belong  more  to  the  State  than  to  their  parents — 
and  should  be  directed  by  a  competent  minister  of  pub- 
lic instruction.  Infants  should  be  reared  with  great 
care — soothed  with  song,  "for  they  roar  continually 
the  first  three  years  of  their  life" — and  carried  about  in 
their  nurses'  arms,  "  as  you  see  our  young  nobles  carry 
their  fighting-cocks."  At  the  age  of  six,  boys  are  to 
be  separated  from  girls,  and  are  to  learn  riding  and 
the  use  of  weapons.  There  amusements  are  to  be 
carefully  watched,,  as  any  change  in  them  may  breed 


128  PLATO, 

revolution  in  the  State.  They  arc  to  learn  dancing 
to  pflvc  them  stately  and  graceful  movement,  and 
v/rcstliug  to  give  them  quickness  and  agility,  and 
music  to  humanize  their  :  oii!.":.  But  both  music  and 
song  are  to  be  strictly  regulated;  there  is  to  be  a 
censorship  of  the  press,  and  all  objectionable  poetry 
is  to  be  ex])unged.  (Plato  hints  that  the  "homilies" 
with  which  his  laws  are  prefaced  would  be  admirable 
exercise  to  be  committed  to  memory.)  Till  the  age 
of  thirteen  they  are  to  learn  their  grammar  and 
letters;  afterwards  the  use  of  the  lyre,  and  grave  and 
simple  melodies;  and  their  education  is  to  conclude 
with  the  rudiments  of  science,  which  should,  if  pos- 
sible, be  taught  in  an  interesting  manner. 

There  must  be  a  religious  festival  (continues  the 
Athenian)  on  every  day  in  the  year,  and  a  monthly 
meeting  of  all  the  citizens  to  practice  warlike  exer- 
cises, when  there  should  be  public  races  for  the  youths 
and  maidens. 

In  the  Ninth  Book,  we  have  the  somewhat  weari- 
some details  of  a  criminal  code,  in  which  Plato  justi- 
fies the  title  given  to  him  by  Numenius  of  "the 
Moses  who  wrote  in  Attic  Greek."  Certainly  some 
of  the  regulations  are  much  in  the  spirit  of  the  writer 
of  Leviticus — such  as,  that  no  man  shall  remove  his 
neighbor's  landmark,  or  cut  off  his  supply  of  water; 
that  the  traveler  may  pluck  the  grapes  at  the  time  of 
vintage;  and  we  have  also,  as  in  the  law  of  Moses, 
the  "  avenger  of  blood"  and  purification  by  the  priest. 

Plalo  here,  as  elsewhere,  attributes  crime  in  a  great 
measure  to  ignorance — a  sort  of  moral  blindness.  We 
should  (he  says)  if  possible,  heal  the  distemper  of  the 
criminal  soul,  or,  if  he  be  incurable,  he  must  be  put 
to  death.     There  are  certain  unpardonable  offenders 


THE  LA  W3.  129 

— the  profaner  of  temples,  the  would-be  tyrant,  the 
traitor  or  conspirator,  and  the  willful  shedder  of  inno- 
cent blood, — these  must  all  suffer  the  extreme  penalty. 
He  distinguishes  between  the  various  kinds  of  homi- 
cide,— in  some  cases  a  fine,  in  others  exile,  is  sufficient 
punishment;  but  for  the  parricide  he  reserves  a  more 
awful  doom — he  shall  be  slain  by  the  judges,  and  his 
body  exposed  where  three  ways  meet,  and  then  cast 
beyond  the  borders;  while  the  criminal  "who  hvis 
taken  the  life  that  ought  to  be  dearer  to  him  than  all 
others — his  own " — shall  be  buried  alone  in  a  deso- 
}ate  place,  without  tomb  or  monument  to  show  his 
grave. 

The  deep-seated  aversion  and  contempt  wilh  which 
every  Greek  regarded  trade  aud  traders  is  shown  in 
Plato's  regulations  as  to  commerce  and  the  market. 
Among  his  5,040  citizens  there  was  not  to  be  found  a 
single  retail  trader.  Such  a  degrading  occupation  was 
to  be  left  entirely  to  tho  residL^nt  foreigners,  if  any 
chose  to  engage  in  it.  If  touic  great  personage  ("  the 
very  idea  is  absurd,"  he  says)  were  to  open  a  shop,  and 
thus  set  a  precedent,  things  might  be  different.  As 
it  is,  trade  carries  with  it  the  stamp  of  dishonor. 
And  then  follow  other  restrictions,  the  necessity  for 
w^hich  serves  to  show  us  that  Greek  shopkeepers  prac- 
ticed much  the  same  imposition  on  their  customers 
as  our  own.  There  was  to  be  no  adulteration,  no 
tricks  of  sale,  and  all  contracts  were  to  be  rigorously 
adhered  to. 

The  hist  two  books  are  taken  up  with  a  number  of 
miscellaneous  regulations  respecting  civil  rights  and 
duties.  The  law  is  to  take  the  power  of  will-makinj 
i.-ito  its  own  hands,  and  regulate  the  succession  of 
property  "  without  listening  to  the  outcry  of  dying 


130  PLATO. 

persons."  Orphans — "the  most  sacred  of  all  deposits  " 
— are  to  be  protected  by  the  State.  A  husband  and 
wife  with  "  incompatible  tempers  "  should  be  divorced. 
Witchcraft  is  to  be  punished  with  death.  No  beggar 
is  to  be  allowed  in  the  land.  No  man  under  forty 
years  of  age  may  travel  abroad.  Bodies  are  to  be 
exposed  for  three  days  before  burial,  to  see  if  they  are 
really  dead.  Magistrates  shall  give  a  yearly  account 
of  their  office  before  certain  public  "Examiners,"  who 
must  be  car^^lly  selected,  and,  if  found  worthy,  shall 
have  special  honors  paid  to  them  during  life,  and  at 
their  death  a  solemn  public  burial, — not  with  sorrow 
or  lamentation;  but  the  corpse  shall  be  clad  in 
robes  of  white,  and  choruses  of  youths  and  men  shall 
chant  their  praises,  and  yearly  contests  in  music  and 
gymnastics  be  celebrated  at  their  tomb. 

Lastly,  there  is  to  be  a  supreme  council  of  twenty 
members — ten  of  the  oldest  citizens,  and  ten  younger 
men  afterwards  added  to  their  number— who  shall 
hold  their  meetings  before  daybreak.  This  council, 
like  a  "central  Conservative  organ,"*  is  to  be  the 
anchor  of  the  constitution — carrying  out  in  every 
detail  the  original  intention  of  the  founder,  making 
his  laws  irreversible  as  the  threads  of  fate,  and  secur- 
ing that  uniformity  of  faith  among  the  citizens,  and 
that  belief  in  the  unity  of  Virtue,  which  can  be  the 
only  safeguard  of  the  "City  of  the  Maguetes" — the 
new  colony  which  they  are  about  to  found. 


♦  Qrote,  iii.  447. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  MYTHS  OF  PLATO. 


"The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream." 

—Wordsworth. 

'*As  being  is  to  Becoming,"  says  Plato,  "so  Truth 
is  to  Faith."  Where  a  man  cannot  prove,  he  must  be 
content  to  believe;  and  the  myths  which  the  philos- 
opher introduces  here  and  there  are  guesses  after  this 
Truth  which  he  believes  and  feels,  but  cannot  pre- 
cisety  defloe.  He  is  conscious  that  there  are  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  "dreamed  of  in 
his  philosophy,"  and  that  there  are  some  unseen  reali- 
ties transcending  all  mortal  experience;  and  so  he 
builds  up  his  doctrine  of  ideas,  embodies  them  in  cir- 
cumstances, gives  them  "a  local  habitation  and  a 
name,"  and  describes  in  detail  the  mysteries  of  the 
unknown  future  and  the  unrecorded  past.  These 
descriptions  are  not  intended,  he  says,  to  be  exactly 
trae.  "  No  man  of  sense  ought  to  aflarm  thai."  All 
that  he  claims  for  them  is  verisimilitude,  "We  may 
venture  to  think  without  impropriety  that  something 
of  the  kind  is  true."  Nor,  again,  is  it  desirable  that 
these  myths  should  be  strictly  interpreted;  so  to  in- 
terpret them  would,  he  thinks,  "  be  the  task— and  not 


132  PLATO. 

a  very  enviable  one — of  some  person  who  had  plenty 
of  time  on  his  hands."  " 

We  liave  no  means  of  telling  how  far  these  Myths 
are  the  creation  of  Plato's  own  prolific  fancy,  or  hov/ 
far  they  are  compiled  from  the  ancient  Mysteries  of 
his  own  country,  from  Pythagoraean  tradition,  or  from 
oriental  legends.  But  whatever  their  source  may  lie, 
his  genius  has  given  them  a  character  and  beauty  of 
their  own;  nowhere  is  his  style  so  grand  and  impress- 
ive as  in  these  fictions,  on  which  he  lavishes,  as  on 
some  "  rich  strand,"  all  the  treasures  of  his  mind. 

THE  CIIEATION  OF  MAN. 
^From  the  "Timseus.") 

The  world  we  live  in,  says  the  astronomer  Timseus, 
being  visible,  tangible,  and  perishable— unlike  the 
world  of  etern  il  Ideas — must  have  been  created,  and  if 
created,  must  have  been  the  work  of  some  great  First 
Cause  or  Architect,  who  fashioned  it  after  an  eternal 
pattern;  "for  the  work  is  the  fairest  of  creations;  and 
he  is  the  best  of  causes."  Of  this  indeed  we  can  have 
no  certain  knowledge,  but  only  belief  or  conjecture, 
since  after  all  we  are  but  mortal  men. 

The  Creator,  being  goodness  himself,  wished  that 
his  work  should  also  be  good  like  him;  and  thus  he 
brought  order  out  of  Chaos,  and  "  put  intelligence  in 
soul  and  soul  in  body,  and  framed  the  universe  to  be 
the  best  and  faiiCGt  Vv^ork  in  nature.  And  therefore, 
using  the  language  of  probability,  we  may  say  that  the 
world  became  a  living  soul,  and  truly  rational,  through 
the  providence  of  God."  It  was  created  of  four  entire 
elements,  blended  together  in  geometrical  pi-oportion; 
and  its  form  was  a  perfect  and  solid  sphere,  smooth 

•  Phasdrus.  228. 


THE  CUE  A  TION  OF  2IA2(  133 

and  complete,  and  moving  in  a  circle.  In  the  centre 
was  the  soul  (also  compounded  according  to  a  scale  of 
harmony),  and  circulating  all  impressions  from  the 
ideal  essence  through  every  part  of  this  vast  and 
visible  animal,  which  included  in  itself  all  visible 
creation. 

'  W'hen  tlie  Father  and  Creator  saw  the  image  that  he  had 
made  of  the  eternal  gods  moving  and  Uving,  lie  was  delighted, 
and  iu  his  joy  determined  to  make  his  work  still  more  like  the 
pattern ;  and  as  the  pattern  was  an  eternal  creature,  he  sought 
to  make  the  universe  the  same  as  far  as  it  might  be.  Now  the 
nature  of  the  intelligible  being  is  eternal,  and  to  bestow  eternity 
on  the  creature  was  wholly  impossible.  But  he  resolved  to  make 
a  moving  image  of  eternity,  and  as  he  set  in  order  the  heaven, 
he  made  this  eternal  image  having  a  motion  according  to  number, 
while  eternity  rested  in  unity;  and  this  is  what  we  call  time 
For  there  were  no  days  and  nights,  and  months  and  years,  be- 
fore the  heaven  was  created,  but  when  he  created  the  heaven  he 
created  them  also.  All  these  are  the  parts  of  time,  and  the  past 
and  future  are  created  species  of  time,  which  we  unconsciously 
but  wronglj' transfer  to  the  eternal  essence;  for  we  say  indeed 
that  he  was,  he  is,  lie  will  be ;  but  the  truth  is  that  'he  is '  alone 
truly  expresses  him,  and  that '  was '  and  '  will  be  '  are  only  to  be 
spoken  in  the  generation  in  time,  for  they  are  motions;  but  that 
which  is  immovably  the  same  cannot  become  older  or  younger 
by  time,  nor  ever  did  or  has  become,  or  hereafter  will  be,  older, 
nor  is  subject  at  all  to  any  of  those  states  of  generation  which 
attach  to  the  movements  of  sensible  things.  These  are  the  forms 
of  time  when  imitating  eternity  and  moving  in  a  circle  measured 
by  number."— J. 

Time  was  thus  created  with  the  Heavens,  in  order 
that  if  one  was  destroyed  the  other  might  likewise 
perish.  Then  the  Deity  created  the  moon  and  stars  to 
move  in  their  appointed  orbits — some  fixed,  some  wan- 
dering,— but  all  were  bodies  with  living  souls  imitating 
the  eternal  nature;  and  he  "lighted  a  fire  wuich  we 
now  call  the  sun,"  that  men  might  have  light,  and  learn 
from  the  regular  succession  of  day  and  night  the  use  of 


134  PLATO. 

numbers.  "And  the  month  was  created  when  the 
moon  had  completed  her  orbit  and  overtaken  the  sun, 
and  the  year  when  the  sun  had  completed  its  own 
orbit."  Of  all  these  stars,  which  are  really  gods,  the 
earth  our  nurse,  was  the  first  and  oldest,  and  was  made 
to  revolve  on  her  own  axis  in  the  centre  of  the  spheres.* 
Then  the  Creator  commanded  the  other  gods,  of 
whose  generation  we  know  nothing  except  from  tradi- 
tion, to  finish  his  good  work  by  weaving  together 
mortal  and  immortal  elements,  and  forming  living 
creatures.  To  these  he  distributed  souls  equal  in 
number  to  the  stars,  assigning  to  eacli  star  a  soul ;  and 
he  showed  to  each  the  nature  of  the  universe,  and  his 
own  decrees  of  destiny :  declaring  that  whosoever  lived 
a  righteous  life  upon  earth  "should  return  again  to  the 
habitation  of  his  star,  and  there  have  a  blessed  exist- 
ence;" but  if  he  lived  unrighteously,  he  should  descend 
lower  and  lower  in  the  scale  of  creation — from  a  man 
to  a  woman,  and  from  a  woman  to  some  animal,  until 
at  last  the  spirit  should  triumph  over  the  flesh,  and  his 
reason,  which  had  never  become  extinct,  should  restore 
him  to  his  first  and  higher  self. 

And  in  the  head  of  man  the  gods  put  an  immortal 
soul,  to  be  master  of  the  body;  and  they  gave  to  the 
body  itself  its  proper  limbs  and  powers  of  movement 
and  sensation,  and  in  the  eyes  they  placed  a  pure  and 
gentle  fire,  which  burns  not,  but  streams  forth  and 
mingles  with  the  light  of  day.  And  they  gave  man 
\  eight,  that  he  might  discern  the  unerring  and  intelli- 
gent motion  of  the  stars,  and  order  his  own  mind  with 


*  The  various  revolutions  and  eclipses  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
according  to  this  Platonic  myth,  are  much  too  perplexing  to  bo 
dealt  with  here. 


THE    CREATION    OF   MAN.  135 

like  exactness;  and  they  gave  him  voice  and  hearing, 
that  music  might  harmonize  his  soul. 

Besides  the  invisible  and  imperishable  forms  of  the 
elements,  and  the  visible  images  of  these  Forms — 
namely,  the  elements  themselves — there  is  a  third 
kind  of  being,  a  formless  space  or  chaos,  where  these 
images  are  stored  up,  and  which  is  the  source  and 
nurse  of  all  generation.  From  this  choas  the  great 
Architect  brought  forth  the  four  elements,  and  shook 
them  together  "in  the  vessel  of  space,"  and  sifted  and 
divided  them  "as  grain  is  sifted  by  the  winnowing 
fan,"  and  fashioned  them  according  to  certain  com- 
binations of  form  and  number.  Thus  the  earth  was 
formed  like  a  cube,  the  most  perfect  and  solid  of  all 
figures;  while  fire  took  the  shape  of  a  pyramid,  and 
so  with  air  and  water.  All  these  elements  were 
formed  according  to  continuous  geometrical  propor- 
tion. 

[Then  follows  a  curious  but  fanciful  description  of 
the  various  phenomena  of  light,  sound,  and  color 
which,  however,  the  reader  maybe  spared.] 

The  gods  (continues  Timasus)  gave  to  man  a  triple 
soul:  firstly,  an  immortal  soul,  dwelling  in  the  head, 
with  the  heart  acting  as  its  guard-house,  and  carrying 
out  its  commands  by  means  of  a  fiery  network  of  veins 
through  every  part  of  the  body:  secondly,  a  mortal 
soul,  which  is  again  divided — the  nobler  part  dwelling 
in  the  breast,  and,  though  itself  moved  by  fear  and 
anger,  taking  the  side  of  rea  on  against  desire;  while 
the  lower  part,  made  up  of  unruly  passions  and  carnal 
appetites,  is  chained  like  a  wild  beast  in  the  belly,  far 
from  the  council-chamber  of  reason,  which  it  would 
otherwise  disturb.  Now  the  gods  knew  that  this  lowest 
soul  would  never  listen  to  reason,  and  they  therefore 


136  PLATO. 

ruled  it  by  means  of  images  reflected  on  the  smooth 
and  brilliant  surface  of  the  liver — the  seat  of  proplielic 
inspiration— sometimes  fair  and  sweet,  sometimes  daik 
and  discolored  by  passion. 

The  marrow,  which  binds  together  soul  and  body,  U 
the  seed-plot  of  mortal  life,  and,  like  the  world,  was 
originally  formed  from  triangles.  These  arc  sharpest 
and  freshest  in  our  childhood,  but  they  grow  blunted 
and  gradually  wear  out  in  old  age,  till  at  last  their  fas- 
tenings are  loosened,  and  "they  unfix  also  the  bonds 
of  the  Koul,  and  she  being  released  in  the  order  of 
nature  joyfully  flies  away." 

Diseases  spring  from  the  disturbance  of  the  original 
elements  of  which  our  bodies  are  composed;  and  the 
soul  also  suffers  from  two  mental  distempers — madness 
and  ignorance.  As  far  as  possible,  nature  should  be 
eft  to  hjr  self;  but  since  there  is  a  strong  sympathy 
between  soul  and  body,  the  conditions  of  health  in 
both  must  be  observed;  the  limbs  should  be  trained  by 
exercise,  and  the  mind  should  be  educated  by  music 
and  philosophy.  For  no  man  can  prolong  his  life  be- 
yond a  certain  time;  and  medicines  ignorantly  adminis- 
tered multiply  diseases  and  destroy  the  constitution. 

Man  should  exercise  in  due  proportion  the  three  souls 
implanted  in  him,  more  especially  that  highest  and 
dlvinest  element  in  our  heads,  which  makes  us  look 
upwards  like  plants,  and  draws  our  thoughts  from  earth 
to  heaven.  If  he  seeks  wisdon  and  truth,  then  he 
"must  of  necessity,  so  far  as  human  nature  is  capable 
of  attaining  immortality,  become  all  immortal,  as  he  is 
ever  serving  the  divine  power,  and  having  the  genius 
that  dwells  in  him  in  the  most  perfect  order,  his  hap- 
piness will  be  complete."  But  if  he  gratifies  ambition 
and  desire,   he  will  degenerate  into  a  merely  mortal 


THE  ISLAND  OF  ATLANTIS.  137 

being,  and  after  this  life  Avill  lose  his  high  place  in 
creation,  first  passing  into  the  form  of  a  woman,  and 
then  into  the  still  lower  form  of  an  animal;  for  uni- 
mals  are  only  deteriorated  humanity — the  birds  being 
"innocent  and  light-minded  men,"  who  thought  in 
their  simplicity  that  sight  alone  was  nei^ded  to  know 
the  truths  of  celestial  regions;  and  the  quadrupeds 
and  wild  animals  being  all  more  or  less  brutal  and 
stolid,  till  at  last  the  lowest  stage  of  all  is  reached  in 
the  fishes. 

"These  were  made  out  of  the  most  entirely  ignorant  and 
senseless  beings,  whom  the  transformers  did  not  think  any 
longer  worthy  of  pure  respiration,  because  they  possessed  a  soul 
which  was  made  impure  by  all  sorts  of  transgression;  and 
instead  of  allowing  them  to  respire  the  subtle  and  pure  element 
of  air,  they  thrust  them  into  the  water,  and  gave  them  a  deep 
and  muddy  medium  of  respiration ;  and  hence  arose  the  race  of 
fishes  and  oysters,and  other  aquatic  animals,  which  have  received 
the  most  remote  habitations  as  a  punishment  of  their  extreme 
ignorance.  These  are  the  laws  by  which  animals  pass  into  one 
another,  both  now  and  ever  changing  as  they  lose  or  gain  wisdom 
and  folly."— J. 

Thus  we  may  call  the  world  "a  visible  animal  com- 
prehending the  visible — itself  a  visible  and  sensible 
God,  the  image  of  Him  who  is  intelligible,  the  greatest, 
best,  fairest,  and  one  most  perfect  Universe." 

THE   ISLAND   OF   ATLANTIS.* 

The  day  after  the  long  discussion  of  the  "Republic," 
Socrates  meets  three  of  his  friends  who  had  been 
present —  ilcrmocrates,   a  rising  statesman,  Timaeus, 

*  Only  two  fragments  of  this  "  Epic  "  liave  come  down  to  us— 
the  prologue  and  the  catastrophe,  found  in  two  dialogues  (the 
"  Timseus  "  and  the  "  Critias  ").  the  latter  of  which  is  broken  off 
abruptly. 


138  PLATO. 

a  distinguished  astrouomer  of  Looris  (who  gives  his 
name  to  the  Dialogue  just  noticed),  and  Critias,  a 
young  Athenian,  whose  accomplishments  made  liim 
seem  "all  mankind's  epitome" — being  politican, 
sophist,  poet,  musician,  all  in  one.  At  their  requcGt 
Socrates  sums  up  his  theories  of  the  previous  day 
but  professes  himself  to  be  hardly  satisfied  with  hi^ 
ideal  sketch.  Like  one  who  has  seen  animals  in  a 
painting  or  at  rest,  and  who  would  like  to  see  them 
in  active  movement,  so,  he  tells  them,  he  would  like  to 
see  how  his  imaginary  State  would  really  act  in  some 
great  crisis,  and  how  his  citizens  would  bear  them- 
selves when  they  went  forth  to  war;  and  he  appeals 
to  his  friends  to  help  him  to  exhibit  his  republic  play- 
ing a  noble  part  in  history.  And  then  Critias  tells 
"an  old-world  story,"  handed  down  in  his  family  from 
his  great-grandfather  Dropidas,  who  had  heard  it  from 
Solon,  and  Solon  had  himself  heard  it  in  this  wise. 

Near  the  mouths  of  the  Nile  in  Egypt  stands  the 
ancient  city  called  Sais,  where  Amasis  the  king  was 
born,  founded  by  a  goddess  whom  the  Egyptians 
call  Neith  and  the  Greeks  AthenS.  Thither  Solon 
came  in  his  travels,  and  was  received  with  great 
honor;  and  he  asked  many  questions  of  the  priests 
about  the  times  of  old,  and  told  them  many  ancient 
legends,  as  he  thought  them,  of  his  own  land.  But 
one  of  the  priests,    being  himself  of  a  great  age  said: 

"  O  Solon,  you  Greeks  are  always  children,  and  there 
is  not  an  old  man  among  you  all.  You  have  no  tradi- 
tions that  are  really  gray  with  time,  and  your  stories 
of  Deucalion  and  Phaeton  are  only  the  partial  history 
of  one  out  of  many  destructions  by  flood  and  fire  which 
have  come  at  certain  periods  upon  mankind,  sweeping 
away  states,  and  with  them  letters  and  all  knowledge. 


THE  ISLAND  OF  ATLANTIS.  139 

The  Nile  has  preserved  our  land  from  such  calami- 
ties; and  therefore  we  have  faithful  records  of  past 
ages  preserved  in  our  temples,  while  you  are  ever 
beginning  your  history  afresh,  and  know  nothing  of 
what  formerly  came  to  pass  in  your  own  land  or  in  any 
other;  all  your  so-called  genealogies  are  but  children's 
tales.  You  do  not  even  know  that  your  own  city,  9,000 
years  ago,  before  the  great  Deluge,  wa?  foremost  of  all 
in  war  and  peace,  and  is  said  to  have  done  the  greatest 
deeds,  and  to  have  possessed  the  fairest  constitution  of 
any  city  under  heaven.  And  the  same  great  goddess 
who  founded  our  city  founded  yours  also ;  for  she  and 
her  brother  HephEestus  obtained  the  land  of  Athens  as 
their  lot,  and  they  planted  there  a  race  of  brave  men, 
and  gave  them  a  fair  and  fertile  soil,  and  rich  pastures, 
and  a  healthy  climate.  And  these  ancient  Athenians 
(so  Critias  tells  Socrates)  realized  in  actual  life  the  strict 
division  of  classes  laid  down  in  your 'Republic;' and 
their  guardian  soldiers — both  men  and  women — were 
trained  and  went  out  to  battle  together  like  yours;  and 
none  among  them  had  house  or  family  or  gold  that  he 
could  call  his  own,  but  they  had  all  things  in  common. 
And  the  number  of  these  guardians  neither  increased 
nor  decreased,  but  was  always  twenty  thousand.  And 
their  most  famous  victory  was  over  the  vast  army  sent 
forth  from  the  island  of  Atlantis. 

"Now,  this  island  was  of  a  great  size — larger  than  all 
Asia  and  Libya  together — and  was  situated  over  against 
the  straits  now  called  the  Pillars  of  Hercules.  It  was 
founded  by  the  god  Neptune,  who  divided  the  land 
among  the  ten  sons  that  were  born  to  him  by  a  mortal 
woman.  And  the  eldest,  who  was  called  Atlas,  he 
made  king  of  all  the  island;  and  he  made  his  brethren 
princes  under  him,  and  gave  them  rule  over  many  men. 


140  PLATO. 

and  wide  provincss.  And  the  descandents  of  Atlas 
multiplied,  and  he  had  wealth  and  power  such  as  no 
other  king  ever  had  hefose  or  since.  And  the  soil 
and  climate  of  this  island  were  so  good,  that  the  fruits 
of  the  earth  ripened  twice  a  year;  and  there  was 
abundance  of  both  minerals  and  metals,  and  many 
elephants  and  other  tame  and  wild  animals  of  various 
kinds.  And  the  city  on  the  mountain  in  the  centre 
of  the  island  was  a  wondrous  sight  to  behold;  for 
bridges  were  built  across  the  'zones  of  sea'  which 
Neptune  had  made,  and  a  canal  was  dug  from  the  city 
to  the  sea,  and  a  fortress  was  built  having  stone  walls 
plated  with  tin  and  brass  and  the  red  'mountain 
bronze, '  and  in  the  midst  was  the  king' s  palace  and 
the  vast  temple  of  Neptune,  covered  with  silver,  and 
having  pinnacles  of  gold  and  a  roof  of  ivory..  And 
within  was  a  golden  statute  of  the  god  himsell'  riding 
in  a  chariot  drawn  by  six  winged  horses — so  huge 
that  he  touched  the  roof;  and  around  were  a  hundred 
Nereids  riding  upon  dolphins,  and  outside  the  temple 
were  golden  statues  of  the  ten  kings  and  their  wives. 
Besides  all  these  things  there  were  many  baths  and 
fountains,  and  public  gardens  and  exercise  grounds, 
and  dockyards  and  harbors  full  of  merchant  vessels 
and  ships  of  war. 

"And  the  plain  around  the  city  was  sheltered  by 
mountains,  and  guarded  by  a  vast  ditch  100  feet  deep, 
and  GOO  feet  broad,  and  more  then  3,000  miles  long. 
And  the  ten  kings  who  ruled  the  island  held  council 
and  offered  sacrifice  together,  and  were  sworn  to  assist 
one  another  in  peace  and  war.  And  they  had  10,000 
chariots  and  a  fleet  of  1,200  ships. 

"  And  for  many  generations  the  people  of  the  island 
were  obedient  to  the  laws,  and  their  kings  ruled  them 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  THE  SOUL.  141 

"wisely  and  uprightly,  setting  no  value  on  their  riches, 
nor  caring  for  aught  save  for  virtue  only.  But  as 
time  went  on,  the  diviae  part  of  their  souls  grew  faint, 
and  they  waxed  insolent,  and  thus  in  the  very  pleni- 
tude of  their  power  they  provoked  the  jealousy  of  the 
gods,  who  determined  to  destroy  them. 

"  It  was  then,  or  soon  after,  that  the  armies  of 
Atlantis  were  sent  to  conquer  Athens,  as  they  had 
already  conqered  Libya  and  Tyrrhenia.  But  of  the 
war  which  followed  we  know  nothing,  save  that 
Athens  stood  alone  in  the  struggle,  and  won  a  great 
battle  over  these  barbarians,  and  that  in  the  space  of 
one  day  and  nicht  the  victors  and  the  vanquished  dis- 
appeared together — for  there  was  an  earthquake  and  a 
deluge,  and  the  earth  opened  and  swallowed  up  all  the 
warriors  of  Athens,  while  the  great  island  of  Atlantis 
sink  beneath  the  sea.  And  to  this  day  the  sea  which 
covers  this  island  is  shallow  and  impassable,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean  save  mud  and  sand- 
banks." 

THE   CHARIOT   OF   THE    SOUL. 

(From  the  "  Phaedrus.") 

Our  soul,  which  has  a  triple  nature,  is  as  a  chariot- 
eer riding  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  two  winged  steeds — 
one  of  a  mortal  and  the  other  of  an  immortal  nature. 
Their  wings  are  the  divine  element,  which,  if  it 
be  perfect  and  fully  nourished  on  the  pastures  of  truth 
and  beauty,  lifts  the  soul  heavenwards  to  the  dwelling 
of  the  gods.  There,  on  a  certain  day,  gods  and  demi- 
gods ascend  the  heaven  of  heavens  —  Zeus  leading 
the  way  in  a  winged  chariot — to  hold  high  festival, 
and  all  who  can  may  follow.  The  gods  and  the  im- 
mortal souls,  whoic  steeds  have  full-grown  wings,  are 


142  *  PLATO. 

earned  by  a  revolution  of  the  spheres  into  a  celestial 
world  beyond,  where  all  space  is  filled  by  a  sea  of 
intangible  essence  which  the  mind— "  lord  of  the  soul  " 
— alone  can  contemplate:  and  here  are  the  absolute 
ideas  of  Truth  and  Beauty  and  Justice.  And  in  these 
divine  pastures  of  pure  knowledge  the  soul  feeds  during 
the  time  that  the  spheres  revolve,  and  rests  in  perfect 
happiness,  and  then  returns  to  the  heavens  whence  it 
came,  where  the  steeds  feast  in  their  stalls  on  nectar 
and  ambrosia. 

But  only  to  a  few  souls  out  of  many  is  it  granted  to 
see  these  celestial  .visions.  The  rest  are  carried  ir:  to 
the  gulfs  of  space  by  the  plunging  of  the  unruly 
horses,  or  lamed  by  unskillful  driving;  and  often  the 
wings  droop  or  are  broken,  and  the  soul  fails  to  see 
the  light,  and  sinks  to  earth  "  beneath  the  doubb  load 
of  forgetfulness  or  vice."  And  then  she  takes  the  form 
of  a  man,  and  becomes  a  mortal  creatm*e;  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  degree  in  which  she  has  attained  to  celestial 
truth,  she  is  implanted  in  one  of  nine  classes,— the 
highest  being  that  of  ihe  philosophers,  artists,  poets,  or 
lovers — and  the  lowest  stage  of  all,  the  tyrant.  Ten 
thousand  years  must  be  passed  by  the  soul  in  this 
state  of  probation,  before  she  can  return  to  the  place 
whence  she  came,  and  renew  her  wings  of  immortality. 
And  at  the  end  of  each  life  is  a  day  of  judgment,  fol- 
lowed by  a  period  of  retribution,  either  for  good  or  for 
evil,  lasting  a  thousand  years;  and  after  that  each  soul 
is  free  to  cast  lots  and  choose  another  life.  Then 
the  soul  of  the  man  may  pass  into  the  life  of  a  beast, 
or  from  a  beast  again  into  that  of  a  man.  But  the 
soul  of  him  who  has  never  seen  the  truth  will  not  pass 
again  into  the  human  form. 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  THE  SOUL.  I43 

liut  from  the  souls  of  those  who  have  once  gazed  on 
celestial  truth  or  beauty  the  remembrance  can  never 
be  effaced.  Like  some*  divine  inspiration,  the  glories 
of  this  other  worlJ  possess  and  haunt  them;  and  it  is 
because  their  souls  are  ever  struggling  upwards,  and 
fluttering  like  a  bird  that  1od(?s  to  soar  heavenwards,  and 
because  they  are  rapt  in  contemplation  and  careless  of 
earthly  matters,  that  the  world  calls  the  philosopher, 
the  lover,  and  the  poet  "mad."  For  the  earthly 
copies  of  justice  or  temperance,  or  any  of  the  higher 
qualities,  are  seen  but  through  a  glass  dimly,  and  few 
are  they  who  can  discern  the  reality  by  looking  at  the 
shadow. 

And  thus  the  sight  of  any  earthly  beauty  in  face  or 
form  thrills  the  genuine  lover  wiih  unutterable  awe 
and  amazement,  because  it  recalls  the  memory  of  the 
celestial  beauty  seen  by  him  once  in  the  sphere  of 
eternal  being.  The  divine  wings  of  his  soul  are 
warmed  and  glow  with  desire,  and  he  lives  in  a  sort  of 
ecstasy,  and  shudders  "  with  the  misgivings  of  a  former 
world."  Often,  indeed,  a  furious  struggle  takes  placa 
between  the  charioteer  and  the  dark  and  vicious  horse 
that  wishes  to  draw  the  chariot  of  the  soul  on  to  un- 
lawful deeds,  and  can  only  be  curbed  by  bit  and  bridle. 
Happy  are  they  who,  with  the  help  of  the  white  im- 
mortal steed  can  win  the  victory  in  this  struggle,  and 
end  then*  lives  in  a  peaceful  and  genuine  friendship. 

THE  GTHiilt   WORLD. 
(From  the  "  Gorgias  "  end  "  Phaedo. ") 
We  mortals,  says  Socrates,  know  nothing  of  the  real 
world,  for  we  live  along  the  shores  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean like  frogs  around  a  swamp;  and  we  think  we 
are  on  the  suiface^  when  we  are  really  only  in  one  of 


144  PLATO. 

those  hollow  places  of  which  our  earth  is  full.  But  if 
a  man  could  take  wings  and  fly  upwards,  lie  would  seo 
tlietrue  world,  which  is  a  thousand  leagues  above  our 
own;  and  there  all  things  are  brilliant  with  color, 
and  sparkle  with  gold  and  purple,  and  a  purer  white 
than  any  earthly  snow.  And  there  are  trees  and 
flowers  and  fruits,  and  jewels  on  all  the  hills,  more 
precious  than  the  sardonyx  or  emerald.  And  there  are 
living  beings  there,  both  men  and  animals,  dwellmg 
around  the  air;  for  our  air  is  like  their  sea,  and  their 
air  is  purest  eiher.  And  they  know  neither  pain  nor 
disease ;  and  they  live  longer  lives  than  we  creatures 
of  a  day;  and  all  their  senses  are  keener  and  more 
perfect;  and  they  have  temples  in  which  their  gods 
really  dwell,  and  they  see  them  face  to  face,  and  hear 
their  voices,  and  call  them  by  their  names.  Moreover, 
they  know  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  in  their  proper 
nature. 

Now  the  largest  of  all  the  chasms  in  our  earth  is 
that  which  Homer  calls  Tartarus  ;  and  through  it 
many  and  mighty  streams  of  fire  and  water  are  ever 
flowing  to  and  f :o,  some  driven  upwards  to  our  earth 
by  a  rushing  wind,  and  others  winding  in  various 
channels  through,  the  lower  world.  Of  these  streams 
four  are  larger  than  the  rest;  and  the  first  of  these 
is  called  Oceanus,  which  flows  in  a  circle  round  the 
earth.  The  second  is  Acheron,  which  passes  through 
desert  places  to  a  like  in  Tartarus,  where  the  souls  of 
the  dead  wait  until  such  time  as  they  are  born  again. 
And  the  third  riv^r  is  Pyriphlegethon,  which  boils 
with  flames  and  falls  into  a  lake  of  fire.  And  the 
fourth  river  is  Cocytus,  and  it  passes  into  the  Stygian 
lake,  where  it  receives  strange  powers,  and  then,  after 
many  windings,  it  also  falls  into  Tartarus. 


THE  OTHER  WORLD.  145 

Even  in  the  days  of  Saturn  the  same  law  prevailed 
as  now — that  men  should  be  judged,  and  that  those 
who  had  done  good  should  be  sent  to  the  Islands  of 
the  Blest,  and  those  who  had  done  evil  should  be 
thrown  into  Tartarus.  But  judgment  was  then  given 
on  the  day  of  a  man's  death,  and  both  the  judges  and 
the  judged  were  alive,  and  owing  to  men  being  still 
arrayed  in  beauty  or  rank  or  wealth,  and  the  garment 
of  th3  body  also  actiog  as  a  veil  to  the  perceptions  of 
the  soul  in  the  case  of  the  judge,  the  judgment  was 
not  always  just.  So  Jupiter  ordained  that  for  the 
future  the  naked  soul  of  the  judge,  stripped  of  all  its 
gross  mortality,  should  judge  the  souls  that  were 
brought  naked  before  him. 

For  when  the  soul  separates  from  the  body,  each 
part  still  carries  with  it  its  mortal  features;  and  he 
who  was  tall  in  his  lifetime  will  be  tall  after  death, 
and  he  who  had  flowing  hair  will  have  flowing  hair 
still,  and  the  slave  who  was  branded  by  the  scourge 
will  carry  the  scars  upon  his  body  into  the  other  world. 
So  also  the  soul  of  the  tyrant  will  bear  indelible  marks 
of  crime,  and  will  be  "  full  of  the  prints  and  scars  of 
his  perjuries  and  misdeed^."  For  such  a  soul  as  his 
there  can  be  no  cure;  nor  will  there  be  any  pardon  for 
such  as  have  been  guilty  of  foul  murder  or  sacrilege, 
but  they  will  be  thrown  into  Tartarus,  whence  they 
can  never  come  forth,  and  their  punishment  will  be 
everlasting. 

But  those  whose  crimes  are  not  unpardonable  will  be 
condemned  by  tha  three  judges  to  abide  in  Tartarus  for 
a  year;  aid  a'tcr  that  they  will  be  cast  forth  on  the 
shores  of  Acheion,  where  they  must  wander  lament- 
ing, and  calling  out  on  those  whom  they  have  slain 
or  wronged  on  earth  to  pardon  and  deliver  them;  and 


146  PLATO. 

until  their  prayer  is  heard,  they  are  forced  to  return 
again  to  their  place  of  torment. 

Now  the  Three  look  with  awe  and  reverence  on  the 
face  of  him  who  has  lived  a  life  of  holiness  and  truth 
in  this  world,  and  who  is  probably  a  private  citizen 
or  philosopher,  who  has  done  his  own  work  and  not 
troubled  himself  about  the  business  of  oth  rs,  and  they 
send  him  to  the  Islands  of  the  Blest,  or  to  that  purer 
earth  of  which  we  spoke  before;  "and  there,"  con- 
tinues Socrates,  "they  live  henceforth,  freed  from  the 
body,  in  mansions  brighter  far  than  these,  which  no 
tongue  may  describe,  and  of  which  time  would  fail 
me  to  tell.  And  he  concludes  in  language  almost 
apostolic : 

"Wherefore  seeing  these  things  are  so,  what  ought 
we  not  to  do,  to  attain  virtue  and  wisdom  m  this  life, 
when  the  prize  is  so  glorious,  and  the  hope  so  great?'* 

THE   STORY  OF  ER. 

("Republic,"  Book  x.) 

Er,  the  Pamphylian,  a  brave  man,  was  slain  in  battle, 
and  ten  days  afterwards  his  body,  which,  unlike  all 
the  otiier  dead,  was  still  uncorrupted,  was  brought 
home  to  be  buried;  but  on  the  funeral  pyre  he  returned 
to  life,  and  told  all  that  he  had  seen  in  the  other  world. 
When  his  soul  left  his  body  (he  said)  he  journeyed  in 
compan}-^  with  many  other  spirits  until  he  came  to  a 
certain  place  where  there  were  two  openings  in  the 
earth  and  two  in  the  heaven,  and  between  them  judges 
were  seated, 

"  who  bade  the  just,  after  they  had  judged  them,  ascend  by  the 
heavenly  way  on  tlie  right  hand,  having  the  signs  of  the  judg- 
ment bound  on  their  foreheads;  and  in  like  manner  the  unjust 
were  commanded  by  them  to  descend  by  the  lower  way  on  the 


THE  STORT  OF  EM.  147 

left  hand;  these  also  had  the  symbols  of  their  deeds  fastened  on 
their  backs.  He  drew  near,  and  they  told  him  that  he  was  to  be 
tne  messenger  of  tlie  other  world  to  men,  and  they  bade  him 
hear  and  see  all  that  was  to  be  heard  and  seen  in  that  place. 
Then  he  beheld  and  saw  on  one  side  the  souls  departing  at  either 
chasm  of  heaven  and  earth  when  sentence  had  been  given  on 
them;  and  at  the  two  other  openings  other  souls,  some  ascending 
out  of  the  earth  dusty  and  worn  with  travel,  some  descending  out 
of  heaven  clean  and  bright,  and  always,  on  their  arrival,  they 
seemed  as  if  they  had  come  from  a  long  journey,  and  they  went 
out  Into  the  meadow  with  joy,  and  there  encamped  as  at  a  fes- 
tival, and  those  who  knew  one  another  embraced  and  conversed, 
the  souls  which  came  from  earth  curiously  inquiring  about  the 
things  of  heaven,  and  the  souls  which  came  from  heaven  of  the 
things  of  earth.  And  they  told  one  another  of  what  had  hap- 
pened by  the  way,  some  weeping  and  sorrowing  at  the  remem- 
brance of  the  things  which  they  had  endured  and  seen  in  their 
journey  beneath  the  earth  (now  the  journey  lasted  a  thousand 
years),  while  others  were  describing  heavenly  blessings  and 
visions  of  inconceivable  beauty."— J. 

And  for  all  evil  deeds  each  soul  suffered  a  ten-fold 
punishment,  and  for  its  good  deeds  it  received  a  ten- 
fold reward.  And  Er  heard  one  of  the  spirits  ask 
another,  wliere  Ardiaeus  the  Great  was?  (He  had  been 
tyrant  of  some  city  in  Pamphylia  a  thousand  years  be- 
fore Er  lived,  and  had  murdered  his  aged  father  and 
brother,  and  committed  many  other  crimes.) 

"  The  answer  was:  '  He  comes  not  hither,  and  will  never  come.' 
And  '  indeed,'  he  said,  '  this  was  one  of  the  terrible  sights  which 
was  witnessed  by  us.  For  we  were  approaching  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  and,  having  seen  all,  were  about  to  reascend,  when  of  a 
sudden  Ardiaeus  appeared  and  several  others,  most  of  whom 
ware  tyrants;  and  there  were  also  besides  the  tyrants  private 
iadividuals  who  had  been  great  criminals;  they  were  just  at 
the  mouth,  being,  as  they  fancied,  about  to  return  to  the 
upper  world,  but  the  opening,  instead  of  receiving  them, 
gave  a  roar,  as  was  the  case  when  any  incurable  or  unpun- 
ished sinner  tried  to  ascend;  and  then  wild  men  of  fiery  aspect, 
who  knew  the  meaning  of  the  sound,  came  up  and  seized 
and    carried    off   several    of  them,    and   Ardiaeus  and  others 


148  PLATO. 

they  bound  head  and  foot  and  hand  and  threw  them  down 
fnd  flaj-ed  them  with  scourges,  and  dragged  them  along  the 
road  at  the  side,  carding  them  on  thorns  like  wool,  and  declaring 
to  the  pilgrims  as  they  passed  what  were  their  crimes,  and  that 
they  were  being  taken  away  to  be  cast  into  hell.  And  of  all  the 
terrors  of  the  place,  there  was  no  terror  hke  this  of  hearing  the 
voice;  and  when  there  was  silence,  they  ascended  with  joy.' 
These  were  the  penalties  and  retributions,  and  there  were  bless- 
ings as  great.  "—J. 

Er  and  bis  spirit  companions  tarried  seven  days  in 
this  meadow,  and  then  set  out  ag-dn  on  their  journey, 
and  on  the  fouith  day  they  came  to  a  place  where  a 
pillar  of  light  like  a  rainbow,  but  far  brighter,  stretched 
across  heaven  and  earth,  and  in  another  day's  journey 
they  reached  it,  and  found  that  this  light  bound  to- 
gether the  circle  of  the  heavens,  as  a  chain  undergirds 
a  ship;  and  to  either  end  of  this  pillar  was  fastened  the 
distaff  of  Necessity,  having  a  shaft  of  adamant  and  a 
wheel  with  eight  vast  circles  of  diver's  colors,  fitted 
into  one  another,  and  narrowing  towards  the  centre. 
And  in  these  circles  eight  stars  were  fixed;  and  as  the 
spindle  moved  round,  they  moved  with  it — each  slowly 
or  swiftly  according  to  its  proper  motion*  And  on 
each  circle  a  siien  stood,  singing  in  one  note,  and  thus 
from  the  eiglit  stars  arose  one  great  harmony  of  sound. 
And  round  about  these  circles  at  equal  distances  were 
three  thrones,  and  on  these  thrones  were  seated  the 
three  daughters  of  Necessity,  clothid  in  while  robes,  with 
garlands  on  their  heads*  And  they  also  sang  as  they 
turned  the  circles  of  the  spindle— Lachesis  singing  of 
past  time,  Clotho  of  the  present,  and  Atropos  of  time 
that  shall  be.  The  spirits,  as  they  arrived,  were  led  to 
Lachesis  in  order  by  a  Prophct>  who  took  from  her 
knees  lots  and  samples  of  lives,  and,  mounting  a 
rostrum,   spoke  as  follows:    "Thus    saith    Lachesis, 


THE  yHTORY  OF  EB.  149 

daughter  of  Necessity.  Mortal  souls,  behold  a  new 
cycle  of  mortal  life!  Your  genius  will  not  choose  you, 
but  you  will  choose  your  genius  ;  and  let  him  who 
draws  the  first  lot  have  th3  first  choice  of  life,  which 
shall  be  his  destiny.  Virtu'3  is  free,  and  according  as  a 
man  honors  or  dishonors  her  he  will  enjoy  her  more  or 
less;  the  chooser  is  responsible,  heaven  is  justified." 
When  he  had  thus  spoken  he  cast  the  lots  among  them, 
and  ench  took  up  the  lot  which  ftll  near  him,  all  but 
Er  himself,  who  was  not  allowed. 

And  these  lives  were  of  every  kind,  both  of  men 
and  animals,  and  were  variously  composed — beauty, 
an  1  wealth,  and  poverty,  and  strength,  and  nobility 
all  mingled  togstlier.  But  no  definite  character  was 
yet  attached  to  any;  for  the  future  nature  of  each  soul 
dep3nded  on  the  life  it  might  choose.  And  on  the 
cho.ca  (so  said  the  Prophet  who  had  arranged  the  lots) 
each  man's  happiness  depended:  and  to  choose  aright 
he  should  know  all  that  follows  from  the  possession  of 
power  and  talent;  and  should  choose  the  mean,  and 
avoid  both  extremes  so  far  as  he  may,  not  in  this  life 
o  ly  but  in  that  which  is  to  come.  "Even  the  last 
comer,  if  he  ch6ose  discreetly  and  will  live  carefully, 
s!i all  find  there  is  reserved  for  him  a  life  neither  un- 
liippy  nor  undesirable.  Let  not  the  fi^st  be  careless  in 
hii  choice,  neither  let  the  last  despair." 

It  was  a  sad  yet  laughable  sight  (said  Er)  to  see  the 
manner  in  which  the  souls  made  their  choice.  For  the 
first  c'.io-e  the  greatest  despotism  he  could  find,  not 
observing  that  it  was  ordained  in  his  lot  that  he 
sJou'.d  devour  his  own  children;  and  when  he  found 
this  oat,  he  lamented  and  beat  his  breast,  accusing  the 
gods,  and  chance,  and  everything  rather  than  himself. 
And  their  former  experience  of  life  influenced  many 


150  PLATO. 

In  their  choice:  thus  the  soul  of  Orpiieus  chose  the 
life  01*  a  swan,  because  he  hated  to  be  born  again  of 
woman  (for  women  liad  bafore  torn  him  in  pieces); 
and  Ajax  chose  the  life  of  a  lion,  and  Agamemnon 
that  of  an  eagle,  because  men  had  done  them  wrong; 
and  Thersitcs,  the  buffoon  of  tlie  Iliad,  took  the  ap- 
propriate form  of  an  ape.  Last  of  all  came  Ulysses, 
weary  of  his  former  toils  and  wanderings;  and  after 
searching  about  for  a  while,  he  chose  a  quiet  and  ob- 
s>  ure  life,  that  was  lying  neglected  in  a  corner,  for  all 
the  others  had  passed  it  by. 

"  Now  when  all  the  souls  had  chosen  their  lives  in  the  order  of 
the  lots,  they  advanced  in  their  turn  to  Lachesis,  who  despatched 
with  each  of  them  the  Destiny  he  had  selected,  to  guard  his  life 
and  satisfy  his  choice.  This  Destiny  first  led  the  soul  to  Clothe 
in  such  a  way  as  to  pass  beneath  her  hand  and  the  whirling 
motion  of  the  distaff,  and  thus  ratified  the  fate  which  each  had 
chosen  in  the  order  of  precedence.  After  touching  her,  the  same 
Destiny  led  the  soul  next  to  the  spinning  of  Atropos,  and  thus 
rendered  the  doom  of  Clotho  irreversible.  From  thence  the 
souls  passed  straight  forward  under  the  throne  of  Necessity. 
When  the  rest  had  passed  through  it,  Er  himself  also  passed 
through;  and  they  all  traveled  into  the  plain  of  forgetfulness, 
through  dreadful  suffocating  heat,  the  ground  being  destitute  of 
trees  and  of  all  vegetation .  As  the  evening  came  on,  they  took 
up  ilicir  quarters  by  the  bank  of  the  river  of  Indifference,  whose 
water  cannot  be  held  in  any  vessel.  All  persons  are  compelled 
to  drink  a  certain  quantity  of  the  water;  but  those  who  are  not 
preserved  by  prudence  drink  more  than  the  quantity:  and  each, 
as  he  drinks,  forgets  everything.  When  they  had  gone  to  rest,  and 
it  was  now  midnight,  there  was  a  clap  of  thunder  and  an  earth- 
quake ;  and  in  a  moment  the  souls  were  carried  up  to  their  birth, 
this  way  and  that  like  shooting-stars.  Er  himself  was  prevented 
from  drinking  any  of  the  water;  but  how,  and  by  what  road  he 
reached  his  body,  he  knew  not:  onlj'  he  knew  that  he  suddenly 
opened  his  eyes  at  dawn,  and  found  himself  laid  out  upon  the 
funeral  pyre,"— D: 


CHAPTER  VII. 

RELIGION,  MORALITY,  AND  ART. 

*'  Religious  ideas  die  like  the  sun;  their  last  rays  possessing  lit- 
tle heat,  are  spent  ia  creating  beauty,"— Leclcy,  Hist,  of  Morals. 

In  his  famous  picture  of  the  School  of  Athens,  Raphael 
has  represented  Plato  as  looking  up  towards  heaven, 
while  Aristotle  has  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the 
earth,  and  Goethe  has  endorsed  the  idea  expressed  in 
this  painting.  "  Plato' s  relation  to  the  world,  "  he  says, 
*'  is  that  of  a  superior  spirit,  whose  good  pleasure  it  is 
to  dwell  in  it  for  a  time.  ...  He  penetrates  into 
its  depths,  more  that  he  may  replenish  them  from  the 
fullness  of  his  own  nature,  than  that  he  may  fathom 
their  mysteries. '"  *  Certainly  the  most  careless  reader 
cannot  help  being  struck  by  the  persistency  with  which 
Plato  dwells  upon  his  favorite  thought,  that  this  life 
is  only  the  first  stage  of  an  endless  existence,  that  death 
is  the  release  of  soul  from  body,  which  the  wise  man 
welcomes  with  joy,  and  that  philosophy  itself  is  but  a 
"  meditation  of  death,  "  or  "the  resembling,  so  far  as  is 
possible,  of  man  to  God.  "  f    In  fact,  disce  mori  may  be 

*  Quoted  in  Ueberweg's  History  of  Philosophy,  i.  103— English 
transl 
tPbaedo,  80;  Theset..  176, 

151 


152  PLATO. 

said  to  be  the  text  of  Platonisra.  Perhaps,  he  says  in 
the  Gorgias,  Euripides  was  right,  and  our  life  here  is 
after  all  a  death,  and  our  body  is  tha  tomb  or  prison 
of  the  soul.  *  And  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  Socratv  s 
bids  Crito  not  to  be  too  careful  about  his  burial,  Plato 
prohibits  in  his  "Laws"  expensive  funerals—"  for  the 
bL'loved  one  whom  his  relative  thinks  he  is  laying  in  the 
earth  has  but  gone  away  to  complete  his  destiny.  "  The 
soul,  he  reiterates,  really  makes  each  of  us  to  be  what 
he  is,  and  the  body  is  only  its  image  and  shadow,  and^ 
after  death  all  that  is  divine  in  us  goes  on  its  way  to 
olher  gods,  f  Man  himself  is  nothing  more  than  a 
puppet  or  plaything  of  the  gods,  acting  his  part  on  the 
stage  of  life  with  more  or  less  success,  and  "  with  some 
Hi  tie  share  of  reality.  "  X 

Ills  view  of  human  nature,  and  of  man's  limited 
powers  of  knowledge,  is  best  illustrated  in  his  own 
famous  allegory  of  the  Cave,  in  the  seventh  book  of 
the  "  Republic. " 

"Imagine,"  says  Socrates,  "a  number  of  men  living  in  an 
underground  cavernous  chamber,  with  an  enlranco  open  to  the 
light,  extending  along  the  entire  length  of  the  cavern  in  which 
they  have  been  confined  from  their  childhood,  with  their  necks 
and  legs  so  shackled  that  they  are  obliged  to  sit  still  and  look 
straightforward,  because  their  chains  render  it  impossible  for 
them  to  turn  their  heads  round:  and  imagine  a  bright  fire  burn- 
ing some  way  off,  above  and  behind  them,  and  an  el  evated  road- 
way passing  between  the  fire  and  the  prisoners,  with  a  low  wall 
built  along  it,  like  the  screens  which  conjurors  put  up  in  front 
of  their  audience,  and  above  Avhich  they  esibit  their  wonders. 
.  .  .  Also  to  yourself  a  number  of  persons  walking  behind 
the  wall,  and  can-ying  with  them  statues  of  men  and  images  of 
other  animals  wrought  in  wood    and  stone  and  all  kinds  of 

*  Gorgias,  492.  t  Laws,  xii.  959. 

X  Laws,  vii.  803. 


RELIGION,  MORALITY,  AND  ART.        153 

n&aterials,  together  with  various  other  articles,  which  overtop 
the  wall;  and,  as  you  might  expect,  let  some  of  the  passers-by 
be  talking,  and  others  slient."— D. 

*'  This  cave,"  Socrates  continues,  "■  is  the  world,  and 
the  fire  that  lights  it  is  the  sun,  and  these  poor  pris- 
oners are  ourselves — 

'  Placed  with  our  backs  to  bright  reality; ' 

aid  all  sights  or  sounds  in  this  twilight  region  are  but 
tie  shadows  or  echoes  of  real  objects.  And  as  some- 
Imes  a  prisoner  in  this  cave  may  be  released  from  his 
chains,  and  turned  round,  and  led  up  to  the  light  of 
day;  so  may  our  souls  pass  upwards  from  the  darkness 
of  mere  opinion,  and  from  the  shadowy  impressions  of 
sense  into  the  pure  sunlight  of  eternal  truth,  lighted 
by  the  Idea  of  Good— in  itself  the  source  of  all  truth 
and  beauty." 

But  "What  is  the  Good?"  Plato  tells  us,  truly 
enough,  that  it  is  what  all  men  pursue  under  different 
names, — deriving  its  existence,  seeking  its  reality,  yet 
totally  unable  to  explain  its  nature;  and  he  compares 
it  in  a  parable,  as  we  Lave  seen,  to  the  sun  which  illu- 
minates the  eternal  world  of  Ideas,  but  as  to  its  own 
essential  nature  he  leaves  us  still  in  the  dark.  The 
philosophers  in  his  State  will  know  it,  he  says,  for  tlieir 
souls  will  be  enlightened,  but  he  does  not  know  it  him- 
self; and  although  the  knowledge  of  it  is  bound  up 
with  the  existence  of  his  State,  and  is  the  culmination 
of  his  system,  all  that  he  does  is  to  "conduct  us  to  the 
chamber  where  this  precious  and  indispensable  secret  is 
locked  up,  but  he  has  no  key  to  open  the  door.  "* 

Sometimes,  indeed,  he  personifies  this  supreme  Idea, 
and,  as  in  the  "Timaeus"  and  "Philebus,"  abstract 

*  Grote's  Plato,  iii.  241. 


154  PLATO. 

goodness  is  merged  in  tlie  concrete  God.  But  even 
here,  his  conception  of  Deity  rises  far  above  tae 
jealous  and  sensitive  occupants  of  Homer's  Olympis, 
wlio  were  immortal  beings  with  mortal  passions  and 
sympathies,  strongly  attached  to  persons  and  places, 
and  sharing  in  all  the  hopes  and  fears  of  their  wor- 
shippers. A  Christian  writer  could  hardly  frame  a 
more  exalted  idea  of  divinity  than  that  which  Plato  his 
expressed  in  many  of  his  Dialogues.  With  him  the 
Deity  is  a  being  of  perfect  wisdom  and  goodness,  all-wise, 
and  all-powerful,  ruling  the  world  which  he  liascreatec 
by  the  supremacy  of  His  reason.  He  can  be  only 
known  to  us  through  some  type  or  form;  but  let  none 
suppose  that  He  would  put  on  a  human  shape  by  night 
or  by  day,  to  help  a  friend  or  deceive  a  foe;  for,  being 
perfect  goodness  in  Himself,  such  a  change  could  be 
only  for  the  worse;  and,  being  perfect  truth,  He  hates 
a  lie  either  in  word  or  in  deed.* 

In  this  conception  of  the  Deity,  Plato  does  but  repre- 
sent the  tendency  of  Greek  religion  towards  "  Mono- 
theism." Long  before  his  time,  all  the  deeper  thinkers 
had  ceased  to  believe  in  the  old  mythology.  Even  the 
sober  piety  of  Herodotus  had  questioned  some  miracles 
and  rejected  others;  and  the  keen  common-sense  of 
Thucydides  had  applied  the  historical  test  to  the  "  Tale 
of  Troy,"  looking  upon  it  as  a  political  enterprise,  and 
accepting  the  catalogue  of  ships  "as  an  authentic 
muster-roll,  "f  Then  Eucmcrus  had  allegorized  these 
myths;  and  Palsephatus  had  softened  them  dpwn  into 
commonplace  narratives  of  actual  facts:  thus  the 
wings  of  Daedalus  became  a  swift  sailing  vessel,  the 
dragon  which  Cadmus  slew  was  King  Draco,  and  the 

*  Republ.,  ii.  +  Grote's  Greece,  i.  333. 


RELIGION,  MORALITY,  AND  AR1\       155 

dragon's  teeth  were  the  ivory  of  commerce.  And 
philosophy  had  aided  this  progress  of  rationalism.  More 
than  a  century  before  Plato,  Xenophanes  had  pointed 
out  the  discrepancies  involved  in  the  popular  mythol- 
ogy, and  had  declared  emphatically  that  there  was 
'*  one  God,  not  to  be  compared  to  mortals  in  form  or 
thought — all  eye  and  all  ear — who  without  effort  rules 
all  things  by  the  insight  of  his  mind."  So  again 
Empedocles  had  recognized,  amidst  the  Crash  of  war- 
ring  elements,  one  holy  impalpable  Spirit,  whom  none 
could  come  near,  or  touch,  or  see;  and  even  Anaxagoras, 
with  all  his  materialism,  had  paid  homage  to  a  sover- 
eign Mind  which  ruled  the  universe. 

"But,'' says  Professor  Maurice,  *' there  lay  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  faith  of  the  Greek  a  seed  of  unbelief 
which  was  continually  fructifying."*  While  many 
clung  with  unwavering  faith  to  the  religion  of  their 
fathers;  while  a  few  (as  we  have  seen)  professed  a 
purer  and  higher  belief  than  mere  anthropomorphism; 
— there  were  others  who,  though  they  rejected  the 
ancient  myths,  accepted  nothing  in  their  place:  and 
the  Sophists  seem  to  have  encouraged  this  increasing 
tendency  to  atheism  among  the  younger  and  more 
skeptical  spirits  of  this  age.  Prodicus  maintained  that 
men  iu  olden  times  had  deified  whatever  was  of  use 
to  them:  thus  wine  was  promoted  into  Bacchus,  and 
bread  was  dignified  with  the  name  of  Ceres.  Critias, 
again,  declared  that  the  gods  had  been  invented  by 
some  crafty  statesman  to  secure  the  obedience  of  hia 
subjects;  and  one  daring  skeptic  of  this  school, 
Diagoras  of  Melos  (subsequently  banished  from  both 
Sparta   and    Alhccs    for    his  impious  theories),   had 

*Hist.  of  Philos.,  i,  86. 


15G  PLATO. 

thrown  a  wooden  statue  of  Hercules  into  the  fire,  say. 
ing  that  he  might  go  through  his  thirteenth  labor  in  the 
flames. 

In  the  tenth  book  of  the  "Laws" — written,  as  has 
been  said,  in  his  declining  years— Plato  makes  a  bold 
stand  against  this  growing  impiety  of  his  day.  It 
springs,  he  says,  from  one  of  three  causes;  from  utter 
atheism,  or,  second,  from  Epicurean  apathy— the 
feeling  that  the  gods  exist,  but  never  trouble  them- 
selves about  mankind;  or,  thirdly,  from  superstition—' 
th3  gods  both  exist  and  care,  but  you  can  pacify  their 
anger  by  sacrifice.  Heretics,  in  his  ideal  city,  are  to  be 
punished  by  solitary  confinement  or  by  death,  and  the 
heaviest  vengeance  of  the  law  is  to  light  on  the  wolf 
in  sheep's  clothing — the  impious  hypocrite  who  dares 
to  use  his  priestly  garb  to  further  his  own  ambitious  or 
criminal  ends.  And  then  he  gravely  takes  the  skeptic 
to  task,  and  justifies  the  ways  of  Providence.  *  "Do 
not "  (he  says,  almost  in  the  very  words  of  the  Psalmist) 
"the  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God?"  Does  not 
the  universal  testimony  of  mankind  teach  us  that  a 
God  exists  ?  And  woe  to  the  rash  and  presumptuous 
youth  who  presumes  to  charge  the  Deity  with  indolence 
or  neglect)  merely  because  he  sees  the  wicked  in  pros- 
perity, and  handing  down  their  power  to  their  children 
after  them.  God  is  no  unskillful  workman,  but  in  His 
wisdom  has  taken  thought  for  all  things,  both  smal- 
and  great.  Each  part  of  the  creation  has  its  appointed 
work  and  purpose,  and  all  the  parts  work  together  to 
some  common  end.  What  is  best  for  one  portion  is 
therefore  best  for  the  whole.  It  is  impious,  indeed, 
to  think  that  this  fair  creation  around  us  could  have 

*  Laws,  X.  886, 


RELIGION,  MORALITY,  AND  ART.         157 

been  the  work  of  nature  or  chance ;  or,  again,  that  matter 
could  have  existed  before  mind.  Such  doctrines  will 
sooner  or  later  meet  with  their  reward. 

"  God,  as  the  old  tradition  declares,  holding  in  His  hand  the 
beginning,  middle,  and  end  of  all  that  Is,  moves  according  to 
Ilis  nature  in  a  straight  line  towards  the  accomplishment  of  His 
end.  Justice  always  follows  Him,  and  is  the  punisher  of  those 
who  fall  short  of  the  divine  law.  To  that  law,  he  who  would  be 
happy  holds  fast,  and  follows  it  in  all  hmnility  and  ordtr;  but 
he  who  is  lifted  up  with  pride,  or  money,  or  honor,  or  beauty 
—who  has  a  soul  hot  with  folly,  and  youth,  and  insolence,  and 
thinks  that  he  has  no  need  of  a  guide  or  ruler,  but  is  able  himself  to 
be  the  guide  of  others,— he,  I  say,  is  left  deserted  of  God;  and 
being  thus  deserted,  he  takes  to  him  others  who  are  like  himself, 
and  dances  about  in  wild  confusion,  and  many  think  that  he  is  a 
great  man,  but  in  a  short  time  he  pays  a  penalty  which  justice 
cannot  but  approve,  and  is  uttery  destroyed,  and  his  family  and 
city  with  him.  Wherefore,  seeing  that  human  things  are  thus 
ordered,  what  should  a  wise  man  do  or  think,  or  not  do  or 
think?"— J. 

The  perfection  of  man's  existence,  according  to  Plato, 
is  to  bring  his  nature  as  far  as  is  possible  into  harmony 
with  God;  and  this  can  only  be  done  by  cultivating 
the  soul,  which  is  the  divinest  part  of  us,  and  came  to 
us  from  heaven  long  before  our  earth-born  body.  * 
'  Honor  the  soul,  then,  "  he  says,  in  one  of  his  homilies 
in  ihe  "Laws"  "as  being  second  only  to  the  gods; 
and  the  best  way  of  honoring  it  is  to  make  it  better 
A  man  should  not  prefer  beauty  to  virtue,  nor  sell  his 
word  for  gold,  nor  heap  up  riches  for  his  children; 
since  th^  best  inheritance  he  can  leave  them  is  the 
spirit  of  reverence.     Truth  is  the    beginning  of  all 


*  We  may  compare  with  this  Kant's  famous  saying,  "On  earth 
there  is  nothing  great  but  Man ;  in  Man  there  is  nothing  great 
but  Mind, " 


158  PLATO. 

good;  and  the  greatest  of]  all  evils  is  self-love;  and 
the  worst  penalty  of  evil-doing  is  to  grow  into  likeness 
with  the  bad:  for  each  man's  soul  changes,  according 
to  the  nature  of  his  deeds,  for  better  or  for  worse.  "  f 

In  more  than  one  passage  Plato  combats  the  objec- 
tion always  raised  against  every  system  of  Optimism 
— the  existence  of  evil,  which  implies,  according  to 
the  atheist,  either  a  want  of  goodness  in  the  Deity  to 
allow  it,  or  a  want  of  power  to  prevent  it.  Practically 
Plato  refutes  this  argument  in  much  the  same  language 
as  a  modern  thinker  mii^ht  use.  Evil  in  the  creation 
does  not  imply  evil  in  the  Creator;  its  existence  is  part 
of  a  vast  scheme  of  Providence:  and  because,  with  our 
limited  faculties,  we  cannot  discern  the  final  cause  or 
design  of  everything  in  nature  (e.  g.,  the  poison  of  the 
rattlesnake),  we  have  no  right  to  say,  therefore,  that 
no  such  final  cause  exists.  Listen  again  to  Plato  (speak- 
ing in  the  person  of  Socrates)  in  the  "  Theactetus." 

"iSoc.  Evils,  Theodorus,  can  never  perish;  for  there  must 
always  remain  something  wliich  is  antagonistic  to  good.  Of 
necessity,  they  hover  around  this  mortal  sphere  and  the  earthly 
nature,  having  no  place  among  the  gods  in  heaven.  Wherefore, 
also,  we  ought  to  fly  away  thither ;  and  to  flj'^  thither  is  to  become 
like  God,  as  far  as  this  is  possible ;  and  to  become  like  Him  is  to 
become  holy,  just,  and  wise.  But,  O  my  friend,  you  cannot 
easily  convince  mankind  that  they  should  pursue  virtue  or  avoid 
vice,  not  for  the  reasons  which  the  many  give— in  order,  foi  sooth, 
that  a  man  may  seem  to  be  good;— this  is  what  they  are  always 
repsating,  and  this,  in  my  judgment,  is  an  old  wives'  fable.  Let 
thiiii  hear  the  truth :  In  God  is  no  unrighteousness  at  all— He  is 
altogether  righteous;  and  there  is  nothing  more  like  Him  than 
he  of  us  who  is  the  most  righteous.  And  the  true  wisdom  of 
men,  and  their  nothingness  and  cowardice,  are  nearly  concerned 
with  this.  For  to  know  this  is  true  wisdom  and  manhood,  and 
the  ignorance  of  this  is  too  plainly  folly  and  vice.    .    .    .   There 

*  Laws.  X. 


RELIGION,  MORALITY,  AND  ARl.        159 

are  two  patterns  set  before  men  in  nature:  the  one  blessed  and 
divine,  the  other  godless  and  wretched ;  and  they  do  not  see,  in 
their  utter  folly  and  infatuation,  that  they  are  growing  hke  the 
one  and  unlike  the  other,  by  reason  of  their  evil  deeds ;  and  the 
penalty  is,  that  they  lead  a  life  answering  to  the  pattern  which 
they  resemble.  And  if  we  tell  them,  that  unless  they  depart 
from  their  cunning,  the  place  of  innocence  will  not  receive  them 
arter  death;  and  that  here  on  earth  they  will  live  ever  in  the 
likeness  of  their  own  evil  selves,  and  with  evil  friends,— when 
they  hear  this,  they  in  their  superior  cunning  will  seem  to  be 
listening  to  fools."— J. 

And  in  the  same  spirit  the  first  great  "type"  to 
which  all  legends  must  conform,  in  his  ideal  State,  is  that 
God  is  good,  and  is  the  author  of  good  alone;  the  evil 
lie  suffers  to  exist  for  the  just  punishment  of  men.  And 
therefore  Plato  will  expunge  from  his  new  mythology 
all  those  false  and  debasing  stories  which  Homer  tells 
about  the  gods  and  heroes,  with  their  violent  passions, 
loves,  and  hatreds;  where  even  the  great  Achilles 
is  represented  as  insolent  and  cruel, — as  slaying  his 
captives,  cursing  the  Sun-god  himself,  and  dragging 
Hector's  body  round  the  walls  of  Troy.  He  will  have 
no  sensational  pictures  of  the  lower  world,  with  all  its 
horrors  of  Styx  and  Tartarus,  and  with  the  souls  of 
the  dead  "fluttering  like  bats"  in  sunless  caverns. 
And  the  music  shall  be  simple  and  ennobling;  he 
will  banish  the  wailing  Lydian  and  soft  Ionian  meas- 
ures, and  he  will  have  only  martial  strain  in  the 
Dorian  mood,  such  as  Tyrtaeus  sang  when  the  Spartans 
marched  out  to  battle;  and  he  will  dismiss  with 
honor  from  the  State  the  charming  and  versatile  poet 
who  can  assume  all  shapes  and  speak  in  all  voices,  and 
will  take  instead  the  rough  but  honest  story-teller  who 
will  recite  simple  and  useful  tales.* 

*  Rep.  iii.  398. 


160  PLATO. 

He  again  attacks  the  poets  in  the  last  book  of  the 
"  Republic;"  and  here  the  ground  of  offence  is  their  imi- 
tation, which  is  (says  Plato)  two  degrees  removed  from 
reality;  for  taking  any  object,  such  as  a  bed,  there  is 
lirst  the  ideal  bed,  created  by  the  Deity,  which  alone 
has  real  existence;  and  then  there  is  the  bed  made  by 
the  carpenter  in  the  image  of  the  first;  and  thirdly,  there 
is  the  shadow  of  this  image,  which  the  painter  or  poet 
delineates  in  his  picture  or  his  poem,  as  it  may  be.  *'  I 
liave  a  great  liking  and  reverence  for  Homer"  (Plato 
continues),  "who  is  the  great  master  of  all  tragic  poets 
— indeed  from  childhood  I  have  loved  his  name;  but  I 
love  truth  better.  And  what  has  Homer  done  for  us, 
after  all?  He  has  not  given  us  laws,  like  Solon  or 
Lycurgus;  he  has  not  given  us  inventions,  like  Thales 
and  Anacharsis,  nor  has  he  founded  a  brotherhood, 
like  Pythagoras;  nor,  again,  has  he  taught  us  any  of 
the  arts  of  war  and  peace.  If  he  had  done  any 
real  good  to  men,  is  it  likely  that  he  would  have  been 
allowed  to  wander  about,  blind  and  poor?  No; — all 
that  he  does  is  to  give  us  a  second-hand  imitation  of 
reality,  to  exalt  the  feelings  which  are  an  inferior  part 
of  our  soul,  to  thrill  us  with  pity  or  terror,  and  so  ren- 
der us  unmanly  and  effeminate."  "  There  are  enough 
f-orrows  in  actual  life  "  (he  says,  later  on,  in  the  "  Phil- 
ebus  ■'),  without  multiplying  them  on  the  stage  or  in 
fiction." 

Though  Plato  was  more  of  a  poet  than  a  philosopher 
himself,  and  in  his  writings  was  said  to  strike  the 
hapjiy  medium  between  poetry  and  prose,  he  is  always 
disposed  to  regard  the  poets,  as  a  class,  in  the  light  ot 
harmless  enthusiasts,  often  the  cause  of  much  mischief, 
but  hardly  responsible  for  their  actions.  In  an  earlier 
Dialogue— the   "Ion" — Socrates  meets  the  rhapsodist 


RELIGION,  MORALITY  AND  ART.        161 

of  that  name,  and  congratulates  him  on  having  just 
won  the  prize  for  recitation  at  a  public  festival.  "It 
must  bo  a  fine  thing  '  (he  says  with  a  tinge  of  irony) 
"tobs  always  well  dressed,  and  to  study  and  recite 
passages  from  the  prince  of  poets ;  but  is  Ion  always 
master  of  his  subject,  and  is  his  talent  really  an  art  at 
ail?  No "  (Socrates  goes  on) ;  "it  must  be  inspiration 
— a  magnetic  influence,  passing  like  an  electric  current 
from  the  loadstone  of  divine  essence  into  the  soul  of 
the  poet,  and  from  thence  into  the  souls  of  his  hearers." 

The  simple-minded  Ion  is  delighted  at  the  idea  of 
being  inspired,  and  confesses  that  he  does  feel  in  a  sort 
of  ecstasy  when  he  recites  some  striking  passage — such, 
as  the  sorrows  of  Andromache  or  Hecuba,  or  the  scene 
where  Ulysses  throws  off  his  rags,  leaps  on  to  the  floor 
among  the  assembled  suitors,  and  bends  that  terrible 
bow  of  bis.  *  '■  Then  "  (says  Ion) ' '  my  eyes  fill  with  tears, 
my  heart  throbs,  my  hair  stands  on  end,  and  I  see  the 
spectators  also  weeping,  and  sympathizing  with  my 
grief.'' 

And  the  conclusion  of  this  short  but  graceful  Dia- 
logue is,  that  the  Deity  sways  the  souls  of  men  through 
the  rliapsodist  or  poet,  who  is  himself  only  the  vehicle 
of  inspiration,  and  knows  little  or  nothing  of  the 
meaning  of  the  glorious  words  which  it  is  his  privilege 
to  utter.  

Plato's  own  view  of  poetry  and  art,  then,  is,  that  it 
should  be  pure,  simple,  and  ideal— free  from  the  sen- 
sational innovations  of  modern  days;  and  he  points 
with  approval  to  Egypt,  where  certain  forms  had  been 
consecrated  in  the  temples,  from  which  neither  painter 
nOr  sculptor  was  allowed  to  deviate,  and  where  for  ten 
thousand  vears  they  had  preserved  their  chants  and  the 
6" 


162  PLATO, 

statues  of  their  gods  unchanged.*  The  poet  should 
not  be  left  to  his  own  devices,  for  bad  music,  like  a 
ba(i  companion,  tends  to  corrupt  the  character:  both 
the  music  and  the  words  should  be  supervised  by  the 
magistrate,  prizes  for  the  best  poems  should  be  awarded 
by  competent  judges,  and  the  moral  of  every  lay  or 
legend  should  be,  that  all  earthly  gifts — whether  health, 
beauty,  or  wealth — are  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  a 
just  and  holy  life.  And  in  the  "City  of  the  Mag- 
netes,"  where  his  own  laws  are  to  be  promulgated,  the 
following  is  to  be  the  theme  of  the  music  consecrated 
by  the  State,  and  appointed  to  be  sung  by  three  choirs 
children,  youths,  and  men : 

"  All  our  three  choruses  shall  sing  to  the  young  and  tender 
souls  of  children,  reciting  in  their  strains  all  the  noble  thoughts 
of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  or  are  about  to  speak;  and 
the  sum  of  thera  shall  be,  that  the  life  which  is  by  the  gods 
deemed  to  be  the  happiest  is  the  holiest;— we  shall  affirm  this  to 
be  a  most  certain  truth,  and  the  minds  of  our  young  disciples  will 
be  more  likely  to  receive  these  words  of  ours,  than  any  others 
which  we  might  address  to  them.  .  .  .  .  And  thoSe  who 
are  too  old  to  sing  will  tell  stories,  illustrating  the  same  virtues 
as  with  the  voice  of  an  oracle."— J. 

We  can  never  exactly  tell  how  far  Plato's  views  on 
religion  are  an  echo  of  his  master's,  or  how  far  they  are 
his  own  original  ideas.  We  have  another  description  of 
Socrates  and  his  teaching  in  Xenophon's  "Memorabilia," 
and  there,  like  Plato,  he  appeals  to  the  excellence  of 
the  creation  round  him  to  prove  the  wisdom  of  the 
great  "  World- builder;"  he  recognizes  the  all-pervading 
and  invisible  presence  of  the  Deity;  he  exalts  the  dig* 
nity  of  man,  only  "lower  than  the  angels"  in  the  pos- 
session of  an  immortal  soul;  and  he  points  to  signs  and 

*  Laws,  ii.  660. 


RELIGION,  MORALITY,  AND  ART.       163 

oracles  to  prove  how  closely  we  may  be  brought  into 
actual  communion  with  God.  But  in  other  respects, 
if  Xenophon  can  be  trusted,  he  preached  a  far  lower 
standard  of  morality— upholding,  in  fact,  the  utili- 
tarian doctrines  so  strongly  condemned  by  the  Platonic 
Socrates  in  the  beginning  of  the  "Republic."  "You 
should  test  an  action,"  he  is  made  to  say,  "  by  its  ad- 
vantages to  yourself .  Be  just,  because  justice  brings 
its  own  reward  with  it;  be  modest,  because  immodesty 
never  pays  in  society;  be  brave,  because  you  gain 
glory  thereb}^;  be  true  and  faithful,  because  truth  will 
bring  you  friends,  the  most  useful  of  all  possessions.'"* 
If  this  was  really  the  tendency  of  Socratic  teaching,  it 
is  clear  that  Plato  took  far  higher  ground  than  his  mas- 
ter. Nothing,  in  f:ct,  could  be  further  from  bis 
thoughts  than  to  degrade  Virtue  into  a  mere  calcula- 
tion of  the  chances  of  more  or  less  possible  happi- 
ness. 

And  in  the  "Philebus  "  (one  of  his  latest  Dialogues), 
where  the  relative  nature  of  pleasure  and  knowledge 
is  analyzed,  Plato  distinctly  maintains  that  pleasures 
dlifer  in  kind  as  well  as  degree, f  the  lowest  being  the 
mixed  pleasures  of  the  senses,  and  the  highest  and 
purest  the  mental  enjoyment  of  music  or  mathematics, 
lie  also  holds  that  wisdom  is  "ten  thousand  times 
better  "  than  pleasure,  since  it  alone  satisfies  the  three 
criteria  of  goodness — beauty,  symmetry,  and  truth; 
while,  in  the  scale  of  perfection,  pleasure  is  degraded 
by  him  to  the  fifth  and  sixth  places. 

*  See  2feller"s  Socrates  and  the  Socratic  Schools,  chap.  vii. 
t  The  utilitarian  maxims  are:  "Pleasures   differ  in  nothing 
but  in  continuance  and  intensity"  (Palcy);  "The  quantity  of 
pleasure  being  equal,  push-pin  is  as  good  as  poetry  "  (Bentham).' 


164  PLATO.  ^ 

The  ouly  one  of  Bentham's  four  "  Sanctions  "*  which 
he  would  allow  to  influence  our  conduct  would  be  that 
described  in  his  Myths — the  rewards  and  punishments 
in  a  future  world.      Virtue  per  se  is   most  excellent — 
being,  ia  fact,,  moral  health  and  streni^th,  just  as  Vice 
is  moral  disease;  and  worldly  advantages  are  not  to 
balance  our  actions,  or  influence  us  in  the  choice  be- 
tween good  and  evil.      Even  in  prayer  he  maintains 
that  a  man  should  not  pray  for  gold,  or  honor,   or 
children,  but  simply  for  what  is  good;  and  the  gods 
will  know  best  how  to  turn  his  prayer  to  his  own  profit. 
"The  prayer  of  a  fool,"  he  says  again,  "is  fraught 
v.'ith  danger,  and  likely  to  end  in  the  oppo-ite  of  what 
he  desires. "f     In  the  same  spirit  the  quotes  (in  his 
"  Alcibiades,  ii.")  some  lines  from  an  old  poet,  wbich, 
should,  he  thinks,  be  the  model  for  all  prayers:  "  King 
Jove,  give  us  what  is  good,  whether  we  pay  for  it  or 
not;  and  ward  off  what  is  dangerous,  even  though  we 
pray  for  it."      And  the  spirit  of  the  prayer  he  declares 
to  be  worth  more  than  any  offerings  a  man  can  bring — 
just  as  the  oracle  of  Ammon  had  declared  the  simple 
prayer  of  the  Spartans  to  be  worth  more  than  all  the 
sacrifices  of  Athens. 

In  one  sense  Plato  does  not  deny  the  "utility"  of 
Virtue,  any  more  than  Cudworth  or  Butler  would  have 
denied  it  ;  and  it  is  in  this  sense  that  we  must  take  the 
famous  sentence  in  the  "  Republic  "  which  Mr.  Grote 
has  prefixed  as  the  molto  to  his  three  volumes:  "The 
noblest  thing  that  is  said  now,  or  shall  be  said  here- 
after, is,  that  what  is  profitable  is  honorable,  and  what 
is  hurtful  is  base.":}: 

*  See  his  introduction  to  Morals  and  Legislation,  chap.  iii. 
t  Laws,  iii.  688.  t  Rep.,  v.  457. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

LATER  PLATONISM. 

Speustppus,  Plato's  nephew,  succeeded  his  uncle  at 
the  head  of  the  Academy;  and  both  he  aud  those  who 
succeeded  him  appear  to  have  taken  a  few  texts  and 
phrases  from  their  great  master's  writings,  and  on  them 
to  have  built  up  ethical  systems  of  their  own ;  while 
others  like  Hermodorus,  traded  on  those  "  unwritten 
doctrines,"  said  to  have  been  divulged  only  to  a 
favored  few.  ■  But  all  that  time  has  brought  down 
to  us  of  the  later  Academy  is  some  brief  and  frag- 
mentary writings,  and  some  untrustworthy  traditions; 
and,  for  the  most  part,  the  memorial  of  these  philo- 
sophers have  perished  with  them. 

Even  ia  Plato's  own  day,  divisions  had  sprung  up 
among  his  followers;  and  one  of  his  most  promising 
pupils,  who  for  twenty  years  had  attended  lectures  in 
the  Academy,  founded  that  school  which  has  ever 
since  divided  with  his  own  the  world  of  thought. 
*' Every  man  is  born  an  Aristotelian  or  a  Platonist:' 
their  principles  are  mutually  repugnant,  and  there  is 
no  common  ground  between  the  two;  and  if  Aristotle 
himself  could  not  understand  his  master's  point  of 
view,  there  is  still  less  chance  of  a  modern  Aristotelian 
ever  doing  so.     The  very  beauty  of  Plato's  style,  his 


166  PLATO. 

exuberant  fancy,  the  myths  and  metaphors  in  which 
he  clothed  his  noblest  tloughts,  were  all  so  many 
offences  to  the  shrewd  common  sense  of  Aristotle,  who 
reasoned  rigid'y  from  fact  to  fact,  who  analyzed  the 
constitutions  of  three  hundred  states  before  he  wrote  a 
line  of  his  "  Politics,"  and  whose  cold  and  keen  tem- 
perament had  little  sympathy  with  a  philosopher  who 
"  poetized  ralher  than  thought."*  As  for  the  Platonic 
"Ideas" — the  very  foundation  of  Platonism — he  re- 
garded them  as  inconceivable  and  impossible,  or,  if 
possible,  practically  useless. 

Plato's  method  of  doubt  and  inquiry — carried  far 
farther  by  his  pupils  than  he  ever  intended  it  to  be — 
resulted  in  the  "  New  Academy,"  a  school  of  Skeptics, 
of  whom  Pyrrho,  originally  a  soldier  in  Alexander's 
army,  was  the  leader.  These  Skeptics  were  a  sign  of 
the  times.  A  weariness  and  despair  of  truth  was 
creeping  over  society,  and  hence  there  grew  up  a  feel- 
ing of  indifference  as  to  all  moral  distinctions,  which 
the  philosophers  who  professed  it  termed  a  "divine 
repose."  Plato  had  said  that  there  was  no  reality 
except  in  an  ideal  world,  and  Pyrrho  and  his  followers 
pushed  this  doctrine  so  far  as  to  deny  the  existence  of 
any  fixed  standard  of  right  and  wrong,  or  of  any  cer- 
tainty which  sense  or  mind  could  perceive. 

Socrates,  it  has  been  said,  "sat  for  the  portrait  of 
the  Stoic  sage  ;"f  and  Stoicism  perhaps  owes  as  much 
to  Plato  as  to  the  Cynics,  of  which  school  it  was  the 
legitimate  offshoot.  The  majesty  of  mind,  the  high 
ideal  of  a  life  in  accordance  with  reason  and  untram- 
meled  by  self  interest,  the  strong  sense  of  a  personal 
conscience,  the  doctrine  that  a  man's  soul  was  an  ema- 


*  Arist.,  Met.  ix.  5.  t  Noack,  quoted  by  Ueberweg,  18? 


LA  TER  PL  A  TOXISM.  1G7 

nation  from  the  Deity — all  these  tenets  might  have 
been  hcM  by  Plato  or  his  master.  But  the  Stoic  dis- 
regarded, if  he  did  not  disbelieve  in,  the  immortality 
of  the  soul;  and  suicide,  which  Plato  held  to  be 
co-.vardly  and  impious,  was  looked  upon  by  Seneca 
and  Epictetus  as  an  easy  and  justifiable  refuge  against 
all  the  evils  of  life. 

Zeno  was  the  first  who  lectured  at  Athrns  in  the 
Painted  Porch,  which  gave  its  name  (Stoa)  to  the  sect. 
His  pupil  Clcanthcs— so  slow  and  sure  that  his  master 
compared  his  memory  to  a  leaden  tablet,  difficult  to 
write  upon  but  retaining  an  indelible  impression — 
carried  out  in  actual  practice  the  principles  of  his  train- 
ing, drawing  water  and  kneading  dough  the  whole  night 
long,  that  he  might  have  leisure  for  philosophy  in  the 
day-time.  Chrysippus  followed,  the  second  founder 
of  the  "Porch,"  who  is  said  to  have  written  upwards 
of  seven  hundred  volumes ;  and  lastly  Posidonius,  the 
most  learned  of  all,  whose  lectures  at  Rhodes  were 
heard  both  by  Cicero  and  Pompey. 

Rome  was  naturally  the  home  of  Stoicism.  The 
pride  and  "majestic  egotism"  which  was  their  ideal 
of  virtue,  suited  stora  and  zealous  characters  like  Cato 
or  Cornutus;  and  this  pride,  when  softened  by  religious 
sentiment,  j)roduced  the  noblest  examples  of  pagan 
philosophy  in  the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius  and  the 
slave  Epictttus.  But  though  S'oicism  could  raise  up 
a  school  of  heroes,  it  suppressed  all  softer  emotions, 
and  set  up  an  ideal  unattainable  by  any  except  the 
most  exalted  minds.  A  change  was  coming  over 
society,  and  the  want  was  felt  of  a  more  tender  and 
attractive  philosophy,  and  a  longing  for  some  deeper 
truth  than  the  cold  comfort  given  by  a  "creed  out- 
worn" like  paganism.     Hence  a  reaction  set  in  against 


168  PLATO. 

the  casuistry  and  skepticism  of  the  later  Stoics  in  favor 
of  the  more  spiritual  side  of  humanity.  Allegory, 
Mysticism,  Inspiration,  and  Ecstasy,  were  the  charac- 
t3ristics  of  this  new  philosophy;  a  critical  spirit  and 
the  strict  inductions  of  reason  were  discouraged,  to 
elicit  divine  ideas,  and  to  subdue  the  senses,  was  held 
to  bj  the  end  of  life.  And,  like  other  creeds,  this 
dawned  in  the  East. 

Alexandria  was  the  meeting  point  of  Eastern  and 
Western  civilization.  In  its  vast  gardens  and  libraries 
might  be  found  a  medley  of  all  nations,  creeds,  and 
languages;  for  the  policy  of  the  first  three  Ptolemys 
—  known  as  SotEr,  Philadelphus,  and  Eucrgetes 
("Savior,"  *' Loving-brother,"  and  *' Benefactor")— 
was  a  liberal  and  universal  toleration.  Accordingly, 
ji  temple  cf  Isis  might  be  found  side  by  side  with  a 
Jewish  synagogue,  or  a  shrine  dedicated  to  Venus; 
and  freethinkers  like  Stilpo  or  Theodorus  (banished 
from  their  own  states  in  Greece  for  their  impiety) 
were  received  with  the  same  welcome  at  court  P3 
the  translators  of  the  Septuagint  or  the  high  priest 
from  Elcusi^.  Everything,  indeed,  combined  to 
make  Alexandria  the  centre  of  attraction  for  philos. 
ophers  and  men  of  letters.  Besides  the  natural 
charms  of  the  place — the  bright  sunshine,  the  clear 
atmosphere,  and  the  soil  so  rich  in  flowers  and  fruits 
that  **  a  man,"  says  Ammianus,  "might  almost  believe 
himself  in  another  world  " — there  was  the  certainty  of 
Toyal  favor,  of  learned  and  congenial  society,  and 
(better  than  all)  of  a  comfortable  pension  and  a  luxu- 
rious residence  in  or  near  the  palace.  For  the  further 
encouragement  of  literature,  Ptolemy  I.  had  founded 
and  liberally  endowed  the  "  Museum "  (or,  as  "we 
'should  call  it,  "university  "),  with  its  porticos  and  Ijc- 


LATER  PLATONISM.  169 

ture-rooms  v.nd.  dining-hall,  and  its  library  of  700,C0O 
volumes — burnt  Aviien  Alexandria  was  besieged  by 
Caesar.  In  connection  with  the  library  there  grew 
up  a  school  of  grammarians  and  critics^  whose  lives 
were  passed  in  the  usual  routine  of  a  royal  literary 
circle, — writing,  publishing,  dining  together,  talking 
scandal,  and  carrying  on  an  incessant  war  of  words. 

In  the  learned  world  at  Alexandria,  some  Jews 
founded  a  new  system  of  philosophy  by  blending 
Judaism  with  Platonism.  They  sought  for  the 
deeper  truth  which  they  believed  was  hidden  under 
every  text  of  Scripture;  intensifying  all  that  was 
miraculous  or  supernatural,  discarding  the  literal 
interpretation,  and  neglecting  the  ceremonial  law  as 
being  merely  the  symbolism  which  veiled  the  truth. 
Philo  headed  this  "mystical  rationalism,"  tracing 
Plato's  world  of  ideas  back  to  Moses,  but  giving  them 
a  place  in  the  Word  of  God  as  the  plan  of  a  building 
has  a  place  in  the  mind  of  a  builder.  And,  in  lan- 
guage like  that  which  Plato  uses  in  the  "  Timocus,"  he 
describes  how  God,  an  invisible  but  ever-present 
Essence,  created  and  ruled  the  world  by  means  of 
ministering  spirits  or  potencies,  of  whom  the  Word  is 
highest,  and  second  only  to  Himself. 

Philo  lived  just  before  the  Christian  era;  and  from 
his  time  a  succession  of  Alexandrian  Jews  continued 
to  give  to  the  world  their  transcendental  theories,' 
founded  on  one  portion  or  another  of  Plato's  writ- 
ing? ;  some,  like  Apollonius  of  Tyana,  going  back  to 
Pythagoras  for  their  inspiration,  and  others,  like  the 
Therapeutae,  seeking  "illumination"  in  a  lonely  and 
ascetic  life, — until,  towards  the  end  of  the  second  cen- 
tury, the  school  of  Neo-Platonists  was  founded  by 
Ammonius  Saccas.      They  united  the  Eastern  doctrine 


170  PLATO.  '  ' — - 

of  "  emanation  "  wiih  the  Platonic  doctrine  of  ideas, 
believing  that  the  ideas  emanated  from  the  One,  as  the 
soul  emanates  from  the  ideas,  and  that  the  last  and  lowest 
stage  of  emanation  was  the  sensible  and  material  world 
around  us.  They  held  it  man's  duty  to  purify  his  soul, 
and  make  it  pass  through  various  stages  of  perfection, 
until  at  last  it  should  he  freed  from  all  contamination 
of  the  senses,  and,  in  a  sublime  moment  of  ecstasy, 
enter  into  actual  communton  with  God.  Four  times 
(so  Porphyry  tells  us)  his  master  Plotinus  was  thus 
'*  caught  up  "  in  a  celestial  trance.  Indeed,  this  phil- 
osopher was  so  ashamed  of  having  a  body  at  all,  that 
lie  would  tell  no  one  who  were  his  parents  or  what 
Tvas  his  country,  and  resolutely  refused  ever  to  have 
his  portrait  taken;  for  it  was  bad  enough  (he  said) 
that  his  soul  should  be  veiled  at  all  by  an  earthly  image, 
and  he  would  never  hand  dowa  an  image  of  that 
image  to  posterity.  How  deeply  he  was  imbued  with 
Platonism  may  be  seen  from  the  mere  titles  of  the  fifiy- 
four  treatises  which  have  come  down  to  us.  Provi- 
dence, Time  and  Eternity,  Reason,  Being,  Ideas,  the 
^'  DsBmon  "  who  has  received  each  of  us  in  charge, — 
such  are  the  subjects  of  some  of  the  chapters  in  his 
""  Enncads."  He  at  one  time  even  obtained  leave  of  the 
reigning  emperor  to  found  a  city  in  Campania,  to  be 
called  Platonopolis,  whither  he  and  his  friends  were  to 
retire  from  the  world ;  but  happily  the  idea  was  never 
actually  put  into  execution. 

The  next  generation  of  Nco-Platonists  carried  their 
Mysticism  still  further.  They  revived  divination  and 
Astrology;  they  interpreted  dreams  and  visions;  they 
consulted  oracles;  and  practiced  those  ancient  rites  of 
expiation  which  Plato  himself  had  so  strongly  con- 
demned,     lamblichus,  one  of  their  number,  traced  a 


LATER    PLATOmSM.  171 

mysterious  affinity  between  earth  and  heaven;  and  on 
one  of  Plato's  texts — "  all  things  are  full  of  gods" — he 
constructed  a  hierarchy  of  heroes,  daemons,  angels,  and 
archangels.  Proclus,  again — a  fanatic  who  wished 
that  all  hooks  might  he  burnt  except  Plato's  "  Timseus" 
interpreted  his  "God-enlightened  master"  in  his  own 
fashion,  and  perfected  himself  in  every  form  of  ritual, 
fasting  and  keeping  vigil,  celebrating  the  festival  of 
every  god  in  the  pagan  calendar,  and  honoring  with 
mysterious  rites  the  souls  of  all  the  dead. 

There  was  one  Neo-Platonist  in  the  reign  of  Trajan 
whose  genial  and  sympathetic  character  stands  out  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  superstition  and  pedantry  of  his 
age.  This  was  Plutarch  of  Chseronea,  better  known 
as  a  biographer  than  a  philosopher.  He  discusses  the 
Socratic  morality  with  calm  good  sense,  purges  the  old 
mythology,  and  preaches  a  purer  monotheism  than  any 
of  his  contemporaries. 

The  last  of  the  Neo-Platonists  of  whom  we  have  any 
record  was  Boethius,  who  lectured  at  Athens;  and 
shortly  after  his  time  the  Emperor  Justinian  gave  the 
death-blow  to  Greek  philosophy  by  interdicting  all  in- 
struction in  the  Platonic  school. 

It  has  been  said  that  "Mysticism  finds  in  Plato  all 
Us  texts,"  and  certainly  most  of  the  Christian  Mysticism 
may  be  traced  back  to  the  Neo-Platonists.  From  their 
time  to  our  own  we  find  this  tendency  towards  a 
theologia  mystlca  appearing  in  one  form  or  another, 
— whether  it  be  in  the  secret  tradition  of  the  Jewish 
Cabala— in  the  preaching  of  Eckhart  in  the  fourteenth 
century — in  the  revival  of  Neo-Platonism  at  Florence 
in  the  days  of  Cosmo  de  Medici— in  the  science  of 
sympathies  taught  by  Agrippa  and  Paracelsus — in 
Jacob  Behmen's  celestial  visions — or  in  Saint  Teresa's 


172  PLATO. 

"  four  degrees  "  of  prayer  necessary  to  reacli  a  perfect 
"  quietism." 

Plato  was  regarded  by  the  early  Fathers  of  the 
Church  in  the  light  of  another  apostle  to  the  Gentiles. 
Justin  Martyr,  Jerome,  and  Lactantius,  all  speak  of 
him  as  the  wisest  and  greatest  of  philosophers.  Augus- 
tine Cills  him  his  converter,  and  thanks  God  that  he 
became  acquainted  with  Plato  first  and  with  the  Gospel 
afterwards:  and  Eusebius  declared  that  "he  alone  of 
all  the  Greeks  had  attained  the  Porch  of  Truth."  It  is 
easy  to  understand  the  grounds  of  this  feeling.  Passages 
from  his  Dialogues  might  be  multiplied  to  prove  the 
close  similarity  which  exists  between  them  and  the 
Scriptures,  especially  the  books  of  the  Pentateuch. 
The  picture  of  the  ideal  Socrates  preaching  justice  and 
temperance,  and  opposing  to  the  self-assertion  of  the 
Pharisees  of  his  age,  the  humility  of  the  earnest  inquirer 
and  the  soberness  of  truth — his  declaration  at  his  trial 
that  he  will  obey  God  rather  than  man,  and  fears  not 
those  who  are  only  able  to  kill  the  body — the  descrip- 
tion of  the  just  man  persecuted,  scourged,  tortured,  and 
finally  crucified,  * — such  passages  serve  to  explain  the 
prayer  of  Erasmus,  who  added  to  the  invocation  of 
Christian  saints  in  his  litany,  "  Sancte  Socrates,  ova  pro 
nobis;  "  and  the  belief  of  so  many  of  the  Fathers  that 
Plato,  like  St.  John  the  Baptist,  was  a  forerunner  of 
Christ.  Again  the  strong  faith  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul — the  no  less  strong  sense  of  the  pollution  of  sin — 
the  belief  that  virtue  is  likeness  to  God — the  idea  in  the 
"Phajdrus  "  of  a  word  sown  in  the  heart  and  bringing 
forth  fruit  in  due  season — the  parable  of  the  "  Cave" 
and  the  Light  of  the  upper  world, — are  a  few  instances 

*  The  literal  Greek  is  "impaled." 


LATER  PLATONISM.  173 

out  of  many  which  might  be  quoted  to  show  the  fore- 
shadowings  of  Christianity  so  often  traced  in  Plato. 
Once,  indeed, — in  the  last  conversation  held  by  Soc- 
rates with  his  friends — a  passage  occurs  which  seems  to 
point  even  more  directly  than  any  we  have  quoted 
to  a  Eevelation  hereafter  to  be  granted.  Simmias,  one 
of  the  speakers  in  the  Dialogue,  thinks  it  impossible  to 
hope  for  exact  knowledge  in  the  great  question  they  are 
discussing— the  unknown  future  of  the  soul;  still,  he 
argues,  they  should  persevere  in  the  search  for  truth, 
taking  the  best  of  human  words  to  bear  them  up,  "  as 
on  a  raft "  through  the  stormy  waters  of  life;  but  their 
voyage  on  this  frail  bark  would  be  perilous,  unless  they 
might  hope  to  meet  with  some  securer  stay — some 
'  *  word  from  God, "  it  might  be. 

Passages  of  this  sort  explain  sufficiently  the  grounds 
of  the  reverence  with  which  Plato  was  regarded  by  the 
Eastern  Church,  and  especially  in  the  school  for  cate- 
chists  at  Alexandria,  where  Clement  and  Origen  taught. 
They  even  go  far  to  justify  the  belief  of  Augustine  that 
Plato  might  perhaps  have  listened  to  Jeremiah  in 
Egypt,  and  that  in  his  esoteric  lectures  in  the  Academy 
he  revealed  the  mystery  of  the  Trinity  to  a  few  chosen 
disciples. 

Tertullian,  on  the  other  hand,  declaimed  bitterly  ta 
Carthage  against  all  Greek  philosophy.  He  headed  the 
reaction  which  had  set  in  against  the  Gnostics  of  a  for- 
mer centurx  who  had  changed  Plato's  ''Ideas  "  into  a 
world  of  -^ons,  and  held  that  the  Word,  Wisdom,  and 
Power,  were  so  many  emanations  from  the  divine  mind. 
Platonism,  Tertullian  held  to  be  the  source  of  all  here- 
sies, and  denied  that  there  could  be  any  fellowship  be- 
tween the  disciple  of  Greece  and  the  disciple  of  heaven, 
or  between  the  Church  and  the  Academy. 


171  PLATO. 

Boethius,  as  we  have  said,  was  the  last  Neo-Platon- 
ist;  and  his  "Consolations  of  Philosophy  "is  the  link 
between  the  old  world  and  the  new.  Then  came  the 
Dark  Ages,  when  the  classics  were  only  read  by  monks 
and  churchmen,  till  they  were  revived  in  the  schools 
of  Alcuin  and  Charlemagne. 

Philosophy  soon  passed  into  scholasticism,  and  was 
conlincd  to  the  dogmas  of  the  Church;  and  through- 
out the  Middle  Ages  we  find  two  great  hostile  camps 
among  the  Schoolmen — the  Realists  and  Nominalists — 
each  fighting  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  name ;  Plato 
being  the  first  (said  Milton)  "  who  brought  the  monster 
of  Realism  into  the  schools,"  in  his  doctrine  of  Ideas 
BO  sharply  criticised  by  Aristotle.  The  question  at 
issue  between  these  two  parties  was  whether  Universals 
had  a  real  and  substantial  existence,  subject  to  none 
of  the  change  and  decay  which  affects  particulars,  or 
whether  (as  the  Nominalists  argued)  they  were  merely 
general  names  expressive  of  general  notions. 

Early  in  the  thirteenth  century  came  a  reaction  from 
the  East  in  favor  of  Aristotle.  His  writings  (which 
had  escaped  destruction  by  the  merest  accident)  had 
been  translated  as  early  as  the  fifth  century  into  Syriac 
and  Arabic;  the  Jews  had  translated  them  into  Latin; 
and  the  conquests  of  the  Arabs  in  Spain  had  brought 
them  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Schoolmen.  Averrocs, 
the  greatest  of  Arabian  commentators,  looked  upon 
Aristotle  as  the  only  man  whom  God  had  suffered  to 
attain  perfection,  and  as  the  source  of  all  true  science. 
He  died  in  a.d.  1198,  just  before  the  rule  of  the  Moors 
in  Spain  came  to  an  end;  but  *' Averroism,"  with  its 
pantheistic  tenets,  long  survived  its  founder. 

Albert  of  Bollstadt,  Provincial  of  the  Dominican 
order  in  Germany,  "  the  universal  doctor  "  (who  bcara 


LATER  PLATOmSM.  175 

a  kind  of  half-mythical  reputation  as  Albertus  Magnus) 
reduced  Aristotle's  writings  to  a  system.  His  pupil, 
Thomas  Aquinis,  '  *  the  angelic  doctor, "  soon  followed  in 
his  steps,  rejecting  all  the  texts  of  Platonism.  denying 
innate  ideas,  or  d  priori  reasoning  in  theology;  but  he 
is  so  far  a  realist  that  he  recognizes  the  existence  of 
universals  ante  ?'<?m— that  is,  in  the  divine  mind;  and 
post  re?7i— that  is,  obtained  by  the  effort  of  the  indi- 
vidual reason.  His  contemporary.  Duns  Scotus,  "the 
subtle  doctor,"  went  further,  and  assailed  Platonism 
with  every  weapon  that  the  logic  of  his  age  supplied; 
while  later  on,  William  of  Ockham,  "the  invincible 
doctor,"  revived  Nominalism,  and  regarded  universals 
as  a  mere  conception  of  the  mind.  Realism  passed 
out  of  date  with  Descartes  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  the  tendency  of  all  modern  philosophy  has  been 
distinctly  towards  Nominalism.  Our  own  great  philo- 
sophical writers,  Hobbs,  Berkeley,  Hume,  and  Locke, 
all  maintain  that  it  is  possible  to  have  general  names 
as  the  signs  or  images  of  general  ideas. 

Bacon,  the  contemporary  of  Descartes,  denounced 
the  wisdom  of  the  Greeks  as  being  "  showy  and  dis- 
putatious;" their  logic  he  considers  useless,  their 
induction  haphazard,  their  dialectic  "the  mere  chatter- 
ing of  children ;"  and  among  one  of  the  grand  causes 
of  human  error — "the  idols  of  the  theatre,"  as  he 
terms  them*— he  ranks  the  Platonic  "  Ideas." 

Once  again  an  attempt  was  made  to  revive  Platon- 
ism, at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  by  Cud- 
worth,  a  writer  of  profound  classical  learning,  who 

*  "I  look  upon  the  various  systems  of  the  philosophers," 
says  Bacon  '*  as  merely  so  many  plays  brought  out  upon  the 
stage— theories  of  being  which  are  merely  scenic  and  fictitious, 
—Nov.  Oi^.,  i.  44. 


176  PLATO. 

maintained  that  there  were  certain  eternal  and  im- 
mutable verities  which  can  only  be  comprehended  by 
reason,  can  never  be  learned  by  experience,  and  cannot 
be  changed  by  the  will  or  opinion  of  men.  And  in 
this  sense  every  intuitive  moralist  may  be  said  to  bo 
a  Platonist;  for  the  doctrine  of  a  moral  sense,  which 
apprehends  of  itself  the  distinctions  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  is  not  merely  the  product  of  society  or 
association,  has  its  origin  in  tte  Platonic  theory  of 
"reminiscence." 


Saro  OF  PLATO, 


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